<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Blood in the Cut by SolarPoweredFlashlight</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144790">Blood in the Cut</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight'>SolarPoweredFlashlight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Consensual Kink, Etheria is a space station, F/F, Mentions of Suicide, No Main Character Deaths I Promise, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sex trust kink and war crimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:40:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>114,466</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarPoweredFlashlight/pseuds/SolarPoweredFlashlight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rare neutral ground between the warring forces of the Eternian Empire and the Galactic Horde, Etheria Station is a safe haven nestled in the center of the Whispering System.</p><p>Adora finds herself a deserter of both the Horde and the Eternian forces; seeking refuge in the only place in the galaxy left to her, she struggles to figure out what kind of life she wants to lead on Etheria Station now that she isn't a soldier any more. It doesn't take long for Catra to show up on the station, claiming that she's defected from the Horde, but Adora can't shake the feeling that of all the Horde's covert operatives, Catra is the one most uniquely qualified to successfully pull off a delicate 'retrieval' of a wayward Force Captain Adora.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adora/Catra (She-Ra)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>919</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Prologue</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora shifts uncomfortably on the sofa; her shoulders are tight, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So we’re clear,” she says, “I’m not here because I want to be. Angella said this was mandatory if I wanted to get back behind the controls of a fighter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Station Administrator did mention that to me when she referred you, yes,” Starla says, leaning back in her chair across from Adora, regarding her with a gentle sort of studious attention. Adora repositions again - a miniscule, restless movement that signals her dislike of this scrutiny. Starla is unyielding, but kind. “I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years now, Adora,” she says, confirming idly that her youthful face and matching youthful charm are a deception. “I’m sure the Administrator told you, but I specialize in helping people who were raised in the Horde and are trying to integrate into a more peaceful life here on the station.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mandatory reprogramming,” Adora translates in a curt grunt, the tension in her tone a perfect match for the tension in her body. “C - “ she chokes, stumbles, flinches on the hard C of the name she nearly made the mistake of breathing life into. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starla waits and watches as Adora scrabbles within herself to find purchase, to hold onto something solid so that she doesn’t fall down into a spiral. She allows Adora the space to collect herself, grants her the silence to reformulate her thought without interruption. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s face flattens back out, neutrality overtaking the signs of distress, and she looks from her own hands up to Starla’s eyes. She seems to distrust this compassionate patience as inherently as she distrusts the entire process. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been told,” she says, starting again from a safer phrasing, “that all Horde defectors have to do this. That I was only given a special exception because of my… special circumstances.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s part of the welcome-to-Etheria-Station package,” Starla says, with a little smile. “We’ve found Horde soldiers, both the clones and the ones with backgrounds like yours, face significant hurdles when it comes to processing their emotions, their newfound freedom, their new environment. We want to provide everybody with the greatest chance of success.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“By brainwashing them over to your way of thinking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” Starla admonishes, “Your case is unique, but your distrust of this process isn’t. Of course you don’t trust me. Of course you don’t want to expose all of your fears and struggles and secrets to a total stranger being paid by the station’s government. The way you feel right now isn’t irrational, so I’m not going to try to talk you out of it.” Adora’s frown gets deeper. Starla forges ahead. “Instead, I’d like to ask you what your boundaries are. You’re here because you want to be able to accept the job offer from Administrator Angella and she’s made talking to me a part of that deal. I understand that. If I’m going to spend this time with you actually being helpful, the first thing we can do to minimize your discomfort is for you to tell me what, </span>
  <em>
    <span>specifically, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you don’t want to happen while you’re in these sessions.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora glowers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starla waits.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes saying nothing is as incisive as an interrogation tool as any question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starla waits a little longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora relents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No relaxation drugs,” she says, “no truth serums, no hypnosis protocols, no lie-detection body scans, heart rate monitors, no atmospheric relaxation induction, no - “ her voice cracks, and the worse fears come to the surface, the deeper wounds sing their old aches: “No brain chips. No restraints. No shock therapy. No punishments for not reciting whatever you want me to be saying.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starla gives her a moment to ensure she’s done, and then nods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I promise none of those are part of how we do things. My job is to give you a place to talk, to allow you to process the things that you’ve been struggling to process on your own, and - if you choose to - help you develop some new mechanisms for addressing the things that are weighing on you or are upsetting you in your day to day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora is quiet for a long time. She clutches a decorative pillow to her chest, grits her teeth, looks at a wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” Starla says, and resists the temptation to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angella certainly seems to think you do. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Well, consider these sessions an opportunity to get things off your mind. Everything you say here is entirely confidential. You can tell me anything, and it will never leave this room. The Station Administrator may have referred you to me, but she will never have any sort of access to the content of these conversations, and the way this room has been built disables all recording devices the moment you step across the threshold.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora appears to consider this. She flicks the little zipper along the side of the pillow, up, down, up, down, up, down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t even know what I would tell you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything at all that you want to talk about. I wasn’t given any details beyond the reason for why you didn’t come to see me when you first arrived on the station a year ago, so you can think of me as a blank slate. You can’t shock me - nothing is off the table.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Blank slate,” Adora mutters, slumping a little; the military precision of her posture gives way a little to exhaustion, to pain, to loss. “You don’t want the gorey details. You don’t - you don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t want to hear about everything. You don’t want to - to - “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She chokes on the words, closes up again. This time when Starla waits, nothing further emerges, so she says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The people you’ve killed, Adora?” The question makes Adora sit bolt upright on the couch, wielding the tiny pillow now like a shield or - perhaps - a weapon. “The childhood abuse you endured at the hands of your superior officers?” Starla smiles sadly, her compassion acting as stabilizing ballast for the enormity of her words. “Remember - twenty years of working with people who were raised in the Fright Zone. I don’t mean to suggest that you’re just like every other child soldier who managed to escape the Horde - I don’t know your story and your pain, and I won’t know unless you tell me - but you aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, just like that, something snaps inside of her and Adora is crying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes three weeks of these sessions before Adora can finally say the name </span>
  <em>
    <span>Catra. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes a few more weeks of dancing around it, talking about her childhood, talking about her entanglement with Eternia and the incident on Krytis, about anything other than the last year. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But finally, when she has learned she won’t be punished for telling the truth, when she has decided that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>trusts</span>
  </em>
  <span> Starla with the truth, the story comes pouring out of her.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<h2>Part One: Adora</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m nervous, I realize, as I debate with myself over whether to order a fourth drink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reasons to get another drink: I’m only a little tipsy, even after three of these awful Capriform beers, and I know I won’t be able to sleep until I’m properly drunk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reasons to stop now: I’m in an unfamiliar place, in public, and that makes me vulnerable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel good about my choice of venues - as good as I can, at least. This hotel lobby in the tourist district mostly caters to alien visitors, specifically Capriforms (hence the awful drink selection) and I’m not likely to be spotted and identified by a Horde defector or - worse - a Horde spy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My hand plays with a long synthetic strand of blonde hair absently as I take the measure of the room again. Two exits - an emergency fire exit, and the door to the street. A door to the kitchen, which likely has another fire door. The obnoxious blue lighting makes everything look like it’s underwater; the far wall tries to dispel the inherently claustrophobic scale of all space station interiors with a massive holographic display of an artificial fish tank. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s stupid, but it could be worse - I shudder and decide I’m just going to order another damn drink as I remember the place I scoped out last week that had a live band of lizardfolk playing some sort of strange music by inflating their throats and clacking pieces of wood up and down the scale plating of their necks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lift my hand to get the bartender’s attention - she’s a Capriform, of course, and I try not to let my unease show on my face when her rectangular pupils flick towards me - and that’s when I see the door to the kitchen open out of my peripherals. I pay just enough attention to this new employee to read their body language and do a quick calculation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>not likely to be a threat</span>
  </em>
  <span> before I give the bartender my order and focus back on the important task of getting drunk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t expect the woman who emerges from the kitchen to come and sit on the bar stool next to mine, and I definitely don’t expect her to talk to me, but when she purrs a lilting, intrigued </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the thing that surprises me the </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> is that her voice sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>familiar. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn to look at her, and even in the overwhelmingly aquamarine lighting of the bar I can see that one of her eyes is laughingly blue and the other one is a brilliant yellow. Ah. Yes, I know her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How could I not? This is the woman who took my virginity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I haven’t seen her in… what, nearly ten years? Not since we were teenagers. But there’s no mistaking her. Even if her species weren’t incredibly rare, I would know that smirk and that voice and those eyes anywhere. My memories of her are one of the few things I held sacred and kept separate from - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. Live in the moment, not the past. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” I say, turning in my seat to face her. I don’t give her more than that, don’t let my face show my surprise to see her here. There’s really only one reason for her to be here that makes any sort of sense to me. I’ve been on Etheria Station for just over a month now and I’ve spent that entire time waiting for one of Shadow Weaver’s agents to make an appearance. This isn’t exactly subtle of her, but there’s probably some kind of logic to sending this particular spy chasing after my trail - maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>because</span>
  </em>
  <span> somewhere on our personnel files there’s a little note that says we had a brief and lurid entanglement during a month long joint training program between the Infiltration Division and the Superior Officer Track. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You here alone?” She asks, leaning casually against the bar and ever so slightly into my personal space, holding eye contact, lowering her lashes. There’s no way she doesn’t know who I am, right? Is it possible that the Etherian style outfit and the long blonde wig and the (inexpertly applied) makeup have actually done their job and kept my identity concealed? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, not for a Feleuri. Her species has a remarkable sense of smell. She has to know, which means she’s just pretending not to recognize me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alright. I’ll play along with the Horde spy. Maybe I can learn something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> than the fact that in the ten years since we last saw each other, time has only crafted the sharp angles of her youthful vigor into elegant, muscular lines of adult beauty. I fight to keep my eyes from caressing her neck, exposed by the undone top button of her uniform dress shirt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” I say, touching one fingertip to the rim of my glass. I have absolutely no intention of drinking this pint of musty, barnyard-smelling beer now that I’ve finally been spotted by one of Shadow Weaver’s agents. I need every last atom of my wits available to me. Anyways, the beer isn’t even very good - I resign myself to the knowledge that this last order was a waste of creds. “Who’s asking?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“An admirer,” she tells me, with a sweet, crooked, enchanting little smile. Interesting that she’s dodging giving me her name, both of us trying to see how much the other recognizes, remembers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That right?” I chuckle, and I don’t have to fake the disbelief in my tone. I looked at myself in the mirror before I left for the night on my hunt for intoxication, and my reflection said </span>
  <em>
    <span>awkward</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>gawky</span>
  </em>
  <span> and not anything that might be worth hitting on. Femininity looks like an ill-fitting suit of blast armor on me, I think, which is appropriate because I’m trying to use it like one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, smoothly sliding a hand across the bar and touching my knuckles with the tip of one of her claws. Goosebumps stampede up my arm. She’s good. She’s gorgeous. And she’s looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing she’s ever seen which, frankly, is hard not to be flattered by when she herself is so utterly entrancing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a good thing I’m only a few drinks in. If she’d been smart, she’d have waited another hour and a half to try this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what if I told you that I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> here with anybody else?” I ask, testing her, probing for intent. If she invites me back to somewhere specific, I’ll have to assume it’s an ambush. If she wants to linger and talk, it’s a safe bet to assume she’ll try to slip something into my drink at some point. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see movement below us and do my best to hide the way my body tenses up, ready for action, but it’s only her leg crossing the distance between our bar stools. She strokes her ankle against my calf; despite all my instincts for self-preservation telling me to punch her in the nose and run, I feel a burning hunger ignite inside of me. I haven’t felt a real woman’s touch in years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d say I’m extremely lucky nobody else has realized just what they’re missing,” she purrs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cocky, aren’t you?” I retort, smirking, because I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>help </span>
  </em>
  <span>myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well,” she murmurs, leaning a little closer, brushing her thumb against my wrist, “I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong, </span>
  </em>
  <span>am I?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know this has to be Catra, but there’s a part of me - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>throbbing </span>
  </em>
  <span>part - that wants to believe she’s just an Etherian civilian who happens to look uncannily like one of the top ranking covert operatives in Baron Hordak’s arm of the Galactic Horde. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell you what,” I murmur right back, leaning in, pouring every drop of raw animal desire I can into the proposition, “Why don’t I go buy a room and you can prove to me that you’ve got a reason for all that self-confidence?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This, too, is a test. If she doesn’t let me pick the room, if she tries to steer me to somewhere she could have prepped in advance with some kind of ambush, that will tell me that this interaction was deliberately planned and that they’ve been tailing me and waiting for an opportunity to send her in as bait. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins at me, casts a little glance at my untouched beer and raises an eyebrow as if in question. I shake my head, then make myself reach across and graze my fingertips boldly down her thigh, as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve got better things to do than sit here and drink shitty faun lager. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It takes monumental effort to move my hand in this fearless, sexually aggressive move on a woman who is - according to this little charade - a total stranger. Under normal circumstances, I would never dare, but these aren’t normal circumstances, and I know my life is in danger if I don’t play everything perfectly and keep her from realizing that I’m onto her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I worry she’ll sense my shy, halting nature at war with my flirtatious choreography, but then she smirks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, princess,” she says, and I try not to make a face at the outlandish pet name before I remember my long, voluminous, Intergalactic Royalty hairpiece, “lead the way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I buy a room from a disinterested looking Capriform who grants door key access to my wrist implant and then goes back to watching a sport I don’t recognize on his own wrist implant’s holo projection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know she can hear my heart thumping as we walk the narrow corridor to the randomly selected room, and I hope she assumes it’s arousal and performance anxiety and not the truth - that I’m preparing myself for a fight. I pretend to smooth my dress, checking that the steel-reinforced plastic zipcuffs I keep on my person at all times are still there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m going to have to have another argument with Glimmer about getting authorization to carry a blaster or at least a stunner on the station, after this. I feel completely naked without some sort of firearm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I unlock the room with a wave of my wrist and we step inside. I don’t even gesture the lights on, just shut the door behind me and press her up against a wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She… oh, she feels so good beneath me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My sense of smell doesn’t rival hers, but I still take in a deep whiff of her as we kiss; industrial disinfectant, cooking oil, sweat, personal hygiene product, and a musty hint of something species-specific I remember from our short but glorious time frequenting Horde-standard storage closets.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her fangs catch wonderfully against my lips as we kiss; I grind my hips against her and moan into her as I work my fingers up the back of her shirt, just to be sure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, she isn’t just an Etherian lookalike. I knew there wasn’t really much of a chance of that little fantasy coming true, but I’m still disappointed when my fingers find the raised scar tissue of her brand. Like mine, it’s impossible to miss: two and a half inches tall and two inches wide, just above the left kidney. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unlike</span>
  </em>
  <span> mine, it’s also the only part of her body that doesn’t have fur on it, making the shape of the Horde insignia even more unmistakable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kiss down her neck, feeling a little guilty for the way I relish her gasps, and then flip her over so that her front is against the wall. In an instant, I have a zipcuff secured and tightened around her wrists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Catra,” I purr, sounding more victorious than I feel. My body is full of adrenaline, my brain is counting down the minutes I probably have available for any sort of interrogation before Catra’s backup arrives. “Did you really think I wouldn’t remember you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra makes a little huffing sound, an almost disbelieving laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Adora,” she croons. “Honestly, I was kind of insulted when I thought you didn’t recognize me.” She turns her face so that her cheek rests against the wall and she can regard me over her shoulder with one piercing amber eye. “I always knew you had to be kinky but I never pegged you for someone who just carries zipcuffs around.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t play stupid,” I snap, the playfulness leaving my tone. “You know who I am, and I know who you are. How many other agents does Shadow Weaver have on the station? How long have you been tailing me?” I push her against the wall a little harder, to show her I’m serious, but I don’t really expect to get any answers out of her. Staying here too long trying to get any sort of truth out of her is just as risky as it would have been to willingly follow her into a location of her choosing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easy there, tough guy,” Catra hisses, wincing in pain at the way the force of my hold is twisting her shoulder, “I’m not with them anymore. I don’t know where you’ve been all this time and I honestly don’t give a shit, but in case you hadn’t heard, there were </span>
  <em>
    <span>mass</span>
  </em>
  <span> desertions after Krytis. I got out as soon as I could. I’ve been on Etheria for months now, I’m not here to fucking reassimilate you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sure, sure, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> seems plausible. (It doesn’t. I’m not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>moron.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, what was your plan?” I growl. “Fuck me, get my guard down, then when I’m asleep hit me with a hypo, load me into a cryobed, and then smuggle me off the station?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Adora, you’re as paranoid as you are self-absorbed. My </span>
  <em>
    <span>plan</span>
  </em>
  <span> was to find out if that was really you under that big stupid wig - you’re not fooling anybody with that thing, you know - and then if it was, hopefully get laid.” She twists a little in my grip, grunts low in her throat when I reflexively tighten my hold. “We could still do that, you know, if you’d just fucking let me go and take these stupid cuffs off me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will warn you </span>
  <em>
    <span>once,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I whisper, leaning in even though I know with her hearing she could pick up my whispering from across a room, trying to make the words as earnestly menacing as I can. “Tell Shadow Weaver her schemes won’t work on me. Tell Baron Hordak that he’s never getting his claws on me. Because you’re going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay away from me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or else you’re going to find out exactly why nobody in my entire platoon could </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span> me back on Krytis.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel something, a pulse, a warning itch, and mentally recoil from it. I don’t actually want to activate it, don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to summon the horrifying not-me supersoldier that takes over my body on a wave of rapid-release adrenasynth. I pull back so that Catra doesn’t feel me start to shake, set myself to the task of zipcuffing her feet to her wrists and leaving her bound on the cheap carpet of the mid-tier hotel room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Catra,” I say, and wave my wrist over the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a fucking idiot,” she calls after me, and then I shut the door behind me and walk away. Shadow Weaver’s goons can collect her, or else the cleaning staff will find her eventually. I don’t care. I know she’ll be fine, and she’ll report back to her superiors. My heart races, my lungs sear, and I fight to suppress the panic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a long, winding route back to my quarters. I make sure to stop at a liquor store on the way. I won’t be sleeping tonight without something to top up the gentle buzz of shitty beer from a hotel bar I know I’ll never be able to go back to again. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time I run into Catra, she’s shirtless and wearing only a pair of dark red boyshorts and a black leather chest harness that seems to be purely decorative and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. I see her breasts before I see her face and even then I recognize her instantly - not many people have that lush, tawny fur, of course - and I am rooted to the spot, having already paid my entry fee to the club and mustered the courage to step inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I could just turn around and leave. That’s probably the easiest solution. But it took me a month to find out about the Crimson Wastes, and another month to develop enough backbone to actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>go, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I feel intensely, viscerally betrayed that </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t seem to have noticed me yet; she’s having a conversation with a tall, muscular woman with long silver hair and the trademark pointed ears and purple skin of an Old Etherian. I allow myself a greedy indulgence: I </span>
  <em>
    <span>look. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>From this angle, the contour of Catra’s chin and neck flows seamlessly into the soft curve of her small breasts. I ogle, because it’s been a long time and because the permissive, aesthetic semi-nudity of this place seems to suggest that maybe I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to ogle. I realize that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> have more on than the harness and the boyshorts; she’s wearing a shirt made out of some kind of mesh netting underneath the harness. It’s obviously not a material meant to conceal anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman Catra is talking to has a hand on Catra’s hip, and her thumb is moving in ways that promise both sex and violence. Unlike Catra, she’s fully clothed, and the only indication of her kinky inclination is the fact that there’s a flogger swinging from her waist, clipped to a belt loop with a gleaming steel carabiner.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, excuse me,” somebody says pleasantly behind me, and I step inside the club proper and leave the safety of the little entryway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To my immediate left is a small bar that I’ve learned serves only water, snacks, and nonalcoholic juice. To the right is the play area, a spread of stations that range from spanking benches to St. Andrew’s crosses to hard points for rope suspension scenes. A small set of stairs leads up to the loft, where a spread of plush (but easily disinfected) leather sofas offer people places to snuggle during aftercare or sprawl and observe the scenes happening on the floor below. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s exactly what it looked like from the photos I saw online, if maybe a little smaller in person. Everything is, by necessity, kind of small on a space station - even one as absolutely massive as Etheria Station. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This study of the architecture buys me exactly three seconds before my eyes pull irresistibly back to Catra, and when they do she’s looking right at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I suddenly feel ratty and underdressed in my black pants and tank top, and intensely aware of the wig. I’m still wearing it even though I’ve kind of come to hate it, because my hair still hasn’t grown out enough to hide the scar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra wears her short hair with a glamorous artfulness that makes me viscerally jealous. It looks like it’s entirely her own, too, since she claims she got out of the Horde, what - six, now? - months ago, so that’s when she would have stopped being subjected to the regulation monthly buzz cut. Her sides are still shaved down, the top is cute and fluffy and stylish looking, and she’s managed to make it look like she wanted it that length on </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Long enough to grab, whispers some carnal part of me. My imagination offers the vivid suggestion of what it would feel like to wind my fingers through that thick brown hair and clench my fist, pull her to her knees - )</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She raises an eyebrow at me from across the room, like she can read my thoughts, like she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>smell</span>
  </em>
  <span> my desire. And, fuck, I suddenly realize, it’s likely that she can. Damn Feleuri olfactory senses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And fuck, her tits look so good, and they’re just - they’re just </span>
  <em>
    <span>out there</span>
  </em>
  <span> for anybody - for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>- to look at. She knows how beautiful she is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I try to rally my thoughts. I came here to get a feel for what this is like, when it’s real people and not just something in my own imagination - to see how normal people do this kind of thing. It’s probably not what Bow and Glimmer had in mind when they gently suggested that I need to get out more and see more of the station and make some friends, but it’s really the only thing I’ve felt compelled to investigate on the entire station. There’s lots that Etheria has that I never would have found across the multi-system sprawl of the Fright Zone, but much of it is just sort of bizarre and baffling to me. Dancing, for example. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I am learning I like non-ration-bar food, though. If I weren’t afraid of being identified and tracked every time I left my quarters, I’d probably go to a new restaurant every night and waste all of my pay for being Angella’s Horde Counter-Strategy Specialist on food instead of liquor.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So frankly, I’m kind of pissed to find Catra here. She says something to the Old Etherian woman, who laughs - low, loud, growly, and something inside of me curls with hunger in response, my eyes tug momentarily to admire the way the low light caresses her biceps with elegant, evocative shadow - and then moves off. Catra has deliberately isolated herself, leaning up against the wall between the bar area and the play area, and she looks right at me in clear invitation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cross to her, and she smirks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Adora,” she says, and doesn’t flinch when I crowd her against the wall, fury thumping in my blood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How the fuck did you know to be here?” I hiss. “My browsing activity is completely cloaked. There’s no way you could have bugged me, and this is my first time here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re still convinced I’m still working for them, huh?” Catra snorts, looking up at me. Hm. She sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking up. We were definitely closer in height when we were nineteen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I could reach down and cup her delicate, wicked little face in my hand, I could stroke her jaw with my thumb, I could tighten my hold a little just to see if she likes it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I reach for my anger, hold onto it to stabilize myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know Baron Hordak personally gave the order to bring me back in at all costs,” I hiss quietly, and then do a quick look around the room to verify what other species are present. It looks - after a two-second survey - like Catra is the only one here with the kind of hearing ability I need to really worry about. I turn my attention back to Catra, accidentally look down at her naked chest before forcing my gaze back up to her eyes. “I know they’ll have turned out the Horde’s best if that’s what it takes to give him what he wants.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Horde’s best, huh,” Catra parrots back at me, and the way she smirks makes me </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> she saw me looking at her body just now. “I’m flattered. You know, Adora, even if you think I’m here to hunt you down, you have to admit I’d be doing a pretty lazy job of it, going to kink clubs and just vaguely hoping that maybe you’ll show up.” I feel the tip of a claw draw a line from my navel to my rib cage and I flinch away with gritted teeth. I have some idea of what kind of carnage those claws are capable of. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking touch me,” I grunt. “I told you to stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>away</span>
  </em>
  <span> from me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re the one that came over here.” She puts her hands up placatingly, but she’s grinning. “I probably shouldn’t find it so attractive that you’re such a stubborn, angry meathead, but y’know, I can’t shake the feeling that you’d be a lot less tense if you could just blow off a little steam.” She fixes me with a look that makes my blood rush, makes my mouth water and my cunt clench. I want her so badly. I want to hurt her, and I want her to like it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We definitely never did anything like that when we were teenagers, but if she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>obviously she - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Obviously she’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking Horde spy</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I can’t let down my guard around her for an instant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m starting to see the brilliant logic of Shadow Weaver sending Catra after me instead of someone I wouldn’t know, someone I have no history or chemistry with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, and the chemistry is blistering. Her hands are still up, palms out, but I feel like she’s touching me, running her hands over my body and whispering obscenities against my neck. I haven’t had a single sip tonight and I feel drunk on her presence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I try to think of something to say, some threat, some cutting remark, some assertion of my right to be here and some logical declaration of why </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> needs to leave so that I can enjoy my evening of sitting at a dry bar drinking water and watching other people doing the things I so urgently want to be doing myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My mouth feels like it’s full of sand, my mind feels, in counterpoint, completely empty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t be here,” I manage to say, and the words feel limp and pathetic even as they leave my lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Catra asks, quirking an eyebrow at me again. I follow the movement; I want to follow it with my mouth, want to kiss along the edge of her eyes and down her nose and breathe hot breath against her freckles. “This is a public place. I paid the entry fee to be here same as you did.” She looks past my shoulder, then winks at someone. “And if you’re not going to bend me over something and hit me, I’m going to go find somebody </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> who wants to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I splutter, and she slips nimbly away in this moment of distraction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just like that, Catra’s gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I meander over to the bar in a state of dazed frustration, pay for a bottle of juice made from a fruit I’ve never heard of before, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m watching as she presses herself against that big older woman from earlier. I catch myself wishing I had hearing like hers, so that I could know what kind of silky words Catra whispers that result in her being cuffed up to a St. Andrew’s cross and thoroughly worked over with that flogger. I drink my juice and I think to myself, well, even if she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a Horde agent, as long as we’re in a public space and I’m the one doing the hitting and she’s the one being tied down, well, that’s about as safe as it can get, right? The Horde can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>openly</span>
  </em>
  <span> make a move against me while I’m on the neutral ground of Etheria Station - that’s why so many Horde deserters came here, after all. Messing with the no man’s land of Etheria Station violates a key clause in the peace treaty they were forced into with the Eternian Empire after the incident on Krytis. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If they want to extract me, they’ll have to be extremely careful, and extremely subtle. Catra can’t exactly knock me out in the middle of a sex club full of witnesses and carry me off to the docks without setting off an alarm bell or two. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a bad idea. It’s such a bad idea. I should really have the damn self control, the damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>discipline, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to resist this temptation. I was a Force Captain, for fuck’s sake, on the fast track to making Baron Hordak’s Second. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pair of pretty eyes and perky tits shouldn’t be enough to make me gamble my life, my freedom, my sanity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But what kind of life am I even living right now anyways, moving sluggishly between my rented quarters at the back of a bakery and my job as a war consultant to the Station Administrator? I can tell my handlers think I’m miserable, even though this is a life of utter lazy luxury compared to what growing up a soldier was like. Bow and Glimmer have lived soft lives, have never left the coddled security of Etheria Station and its unusual position of safety among the vast ancient minefields of the Whispering System. They mean well, I’m sure, but sometimes when I’m talking to them I feel like I’m talking to little children. They think I need parties and friends and entertainment to be happy. I’m just happy to be alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I still… kind of don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I’m alive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes don’t think I </span>
  <em>
    <span>ought</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So it seems like a waste of my energy to fuss about the quality of said life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even if… maybe they have a point. Maybe I want more than just drinking away nightmares and sleeping off hangovers and raking my memories for anything useful I can give the Etherians about how to protect their tiny, precious little haven while the lumbering giants of Horde Prime and the Eternian Emperor trade galactic-sized blows above their heads. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch Catra flex and clench and make noises of exquisite pleasure under the skilled strikes of her play partner. I go to take a drink of my juice and realize it’s long since drained. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I want, and I want, and I want. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I know, deep down, that inevitably I will make a very, very stupid decision. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What kind of data do you keep on the people who immigrate to the station with Horde backgrounds?” I ask, trying to keep my question businesslike, as if it’s something to do with their station’s security measures and not related to a specific person.</p><p> </p><p>Administrator Angella taps her lips, then makes a gesture that spawns a hologram from her wrist implant. The meeting room table lights up with a collection of new citizen profiles; there are hundreds of them. </p><p> </p><p>“We don’t believe in monitoring our citizens,” she says, dignified and elegant, and all I can think is that she’s either stupid or lying. “As we’ve discussed with you before, <em> normally - </em>“ I don’t miss the pointed look she sends me, and I wonder if she’ll ever stop gently pushing me on this subject I’ve told her clearly is non-negotiable, “ - anybody who comes to the station from the Horde is assigned a therapist for the first six months of their citizenship, with the opportunity to continue with them free of any cost for as long as they find the support to be beneficial.” </p><p> </p><p>“And,” I interrupt, suspecting I can see through the veneer of political niceties that Angella is smoothing preciously over the naked truth here, “if one of these ex-Horde soldiers gives their assigned therapist some kind of indication that they might be dangerous, or an undercover operative?” </p><p> </p><p>“Then I hear about it,” Bow says, confirming my gut feeling. He folds his fingers together, giving me a sweet, gentle smile that seems wholly out of place on the face of Etheria Station’s Spymaster General. “That isn’t the <em> reason </em> we assign therapy to ex-soldiers, but it does come up every now and then.”</p><p> </p><p>“But for the <em> most </em> part,” Angella says, with indignant righteousness, “they are simply there to <em> help, </em>and that confidence is never betrayed. Adora, I - “</p><p> </p><p>“Mom,” Glimmer cuts in, “She told you no. Stop asking. She didn’t bring this up to get lectured, and you <em> agreed </em> to waive the requirement.” Freedom from the Etherian indoctrination process apparently is achievable for the low, low cost of a significant number of top classified military secrets from both the Horde and Eternian sides of the war. I’m glad Glimmer is willing to redirect Angella, because I’m getting tired of doing it. She’s been worse than usual since the incident a week ago when I made the mistake of showing up to a consultation noticeably hungover. My own stupid fault for not checking to make sure I wasn’t out of polyxanthine pills - an amateur mistake, drinking down poison without stopping to ensure you’ve got the remedy on hand for the morning. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have some reason to believe Horde Prime is working to infiltrate the station?” Bow asks me, neatly moving us back on topic before Angella can get testy at Glimmer for her insubordination. </p><p> </p><p>“You remember I briefed you on Shadow Weaver back when I first arrived here,” I start, activating my own wrist implant and casting the report I wrote for them over top of Angella’s projection of all the files on Horde deserters on the station. “She doesn’t have a formal rank, but she’s the officer in charge of the Covert Ops division of Baron Hordak’s forces. Everything about Baron Hordak’s division of the Horde is completely experimental. In the scope of Horde Prime’s operations, it’s negligible - an intriguing operation to test the viability of using the resources of conquered planets towards soldiery. Because everything is experimental, Shadow Weaver has more freedom and power in her role than she would under the oversight of any other Baron. The whole premise of infiltration is relatively new to the Horde, since it’s not exactly like a Xyltorian clone goes unnoticed or blends in anywhere in the galaxy. It wasn’t until Baron Hordak proposed repurposing conquered citizenry as soldiers that having a Covert Ops division was even <em> possible. </em> That means Shadow Weaver’s operations are… at least <em> interesting </em> to Horde Prime, from what I’ve gathered. Maybe the most interesting thing about Baron Hordak’s whole initiative.” </p><p> </p><p>I keep my voice even and calm, because that’s the easiest way to handle the uncomfortable subject of my own origin. <em> Baron Hordak’s initiative </em> doesn’t stick to the roof of my mouth the same way, say, <em> the decision to kidnap and indoctrinate hundreds of thousands of orphaned children, harvested from planets devastated by Horde Prime </em> would. </p><p> </p><p>Everybody at the table frowns, and I’m reminded again of how soft they all are. They wear their titles with such self-certain pride, Administrator, Spymaster, Commander - none of them have ever seen real battle. None of them have been part of anything bigger than this one little station. I struggle to not be resentful of them, of their safety, of their naivete. </p><p> </p><p>I struggle to not hate them for the pity in their eyes when they look at me. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve made contact with one of Shadow Weaver’s top operatives,” I say, pushing onwards. “A Feleuri going by the name of Catra. Do you remember the infiltration of that network of rebel mining colonies that happened five years ago, where the Horde was able to just walk in and take everything without having to destroy any of the machinery or equipment because somebody had sabotaged all the security and either bribed or killed all the leaders? Well - that operation was headed by Catra. And now she’s on your station.” </p><p> </p><p>Angella’s frown is a big one, a worried one. She’s terrible at hiding her feelings. I try not to think about how quickly she’d have failed as a military leader in the Horde. </p><p> </p><p>“Did we know about this, Bow?”</p><p> </p><p>“We did, Administrator,” he says placatingly, and I’m relieved to hear at least the person in charge of whispers and eavesdropping here has been paying attention to threats like Catra. “She arrived about six months ago in a stolen skiff, claiming to be a deserter. That was right after - “ he looks at me, doesn’t say <em> Krytis - </em>“It was during that big wave of incoming Horde deserters, when the Eternians finally forced them into the ceasefire. She was one of maybe a hundred who trickled in over the course of that month. Unlike most of them, she had an existing character reference on board to vouch for her sincerity.” </p><p> </p><p>This is new information to me, and I lean forward eagerly as he taps his wrist and brings up a projection of a specific file. I run my eyes over it as quickly as I can. Name Scorpia, occupation Dock Worker, species Carabocci. Ex-Horde, defected eight years ago. I don’t recognize the name or the description. </p><p> </p><p>“Catra’s been living with Scorpia, and dutifully attending her mandated therapist sessions. She’ll have finished up her last required one sometime this week, actually. No red flags in the system, but then, if she’s as good of an operative as you say, she’s smart enough not to say anything during her sessions that would arouse suspicion.” </p><p> </p><p>I nod thoughtfully as he explains, running this new data through my mind. If her ‘character reference’ has been here for eight years, is it possible she’d really just been biding her time and waiting for the best opportunity to escape from the Horde? Anybody under the direct supervision of Shadow Weaver would have an especially difficult time trying to get the pieces together for a plan to go AWOL - and an especially awful punishment to look forward to, if they were caught. </p><p> </p><p>This doesn’t prove anything one way or another. </p><p> </p><p>“We need to keep an eye on her,” I say, tapping my wrist to request a copy of Scorpia’s file. Instead of receiving the tiny flicker of sensation that should confirm receipt, there’s nothing. I look up at Bow, confused. His body language is tense, awkward. Did he just deny me access to the file? </p><p> </p><p>“Look,” he says carefully, and I’m immediately on edge. “I appreciate your attentiveness, and all of the information you’ve given us on the Horde has been enormously valuable, but you should leave this one in my hands, okay? I know things are different in the Fright Zone, but privacy really does mean something here, and we try not to violate it unless we’ve got probable cause to believe somebody is doing something dangerous. We’re not like the Eternians, and we don’t <em> want </em> to be like them.” </p><p> </p><p>His gentle rebuke feels like a fucking slap; my lip curls, and I fight the impulse to get up out of my chair and storm out of the room. </p><p> </p><p>It’s the sharpness of the feeling itself that actually calms me down, forces me to take a step back and regard it through a rational lens. Why <em> do </em>I feel so strongly about this? He’s in charge of domestic affairs and internal surveillance. I’m just a consultant, an outsider - I don’t actually have the jurisdiction to be reading citizenry files. And what would I have done with it?</p><p> </p><p>(I’d have gotten the coordinates of Scorpia’s quarters and tried to set up a little surveillance of my own, probably, and have gotten immediately caught in the act by Catra’s sense of smell. At least it’d have made me feel like I had some sort of edge over her, to know where she lives, to make sure <em> she </em> knows that I know where she lives.)</p><p> </p><p>But apparently that’s not the sort of thing they do here on Etheria Station. I try to keep my little scoff to a noise under my breath, try not to roll my eyes <em> too </em> obviously, but Glimmer’s soft, sweet face pinches unhappily and I’m sure I didn’t do a very good job at suppressing either.</p><p> </p><p>“Just keep an eye on her,” I mutter, touching my wrist and deactivating my projection. “You ask me to have these meetings to review potential threats, and if you <em> don’t </em> treat Catra like a potential threat, you’re asking for trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>If only I’d take my own advice. My thoughts drift from the sterile environs of the Etherian war room to the throbbing energy of the Crimson Wastes. Maybe I’ll go again tonight and hope Catra isn’t there. It’s not like I have anything else to do with my evening. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>I pause on my way between the shower and the bedroom, catching sight of my reflection. I feel an unpleasant twist of some foreign emotion as my eyes drift over the tattered remains of what was once <em> me.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I touch my own arms, watching the sad, hollowed out Adora in the mirror do the same. </p><p> </p><p>Entropy. Inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>Atrophy. Unsurprising. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it took this long for the Horde to track me down because I hardly look like the person I used to be. Proud, broad, muscular Force Captain Adora is gone, deflated and degraded after the six month recuperation living on fluids and unable to leave the medibed. Like someone deliberately smearing disinfectant into a hand covered in scrapes, knowing it will sting like hell, I defiantly lift up my arms and try to flex. </p><p> </p><p>My arms don’t even seem to respond to the command.</p><p> </p><p>I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to break something. </p><p> </p><p>Six months. Six months was all it took to lose a lifetime of dedicated, ruthless training. </p><p> </p><p>I’m lucky to be alive at all, I remind myself, but the attempt at positivity tastes sour in my own mouth. I drop my arms, march from the bathroom, and don’t look at the mirror again.</p><p> </p><p>I consider a hit from one of the various bottles I’ve got around my quarters, but Crimson Wastes has a strict No Intoxicants policy and I’m not looking to get barred from there before I can even really experience it properly without the distraction of Catra.</p><p> </p><p>Catra. I hope she isn’t there tonight.</p><p> </p><p>I get to the club a little later in the evening than my first venture; I immediately scan the room for her but find no sign of any telltale Feleuri ears among the people engaged in play. The club is in full swing at this hour, and every single station is occupied by a couple - one, in fact, by a trio - and the bar area is crowded. I decide to skip the juice for now and make my way up the stairs to the loft area. </p><p> </p><p>The steel grating of the loft floor is oddly comforting; it reminds me of any number of the troop carrier and mobile base interiors I’ve spent my life aboard. It circles around the outer edge of the room, and between the industrial style floor and the steel cable railings, the effect is that no matter where you stand you get a good view of the action happening just below you on the equipment. I’m sure this design must be intentional; from my research, voyeurism and exhibitionism are pretty common kinks. </p><p> </p><p>I smirk a little to myself as I settle into a leather sofa, watching a scene happening between a Capriform and a four-armed lizardfolk. This rush of genuine voyeurism is certainly something Light Hope could never have given me. Is it weird to feel smug about it? I don’t know. </p><p> </p><p>Anyways, I shouldn’t be thinking about her. Half the point of coming here is to overwrite all those old memories with new experiences - <em> real </em> experiences. </p><p> </p><p>I try to look cool and casual - like I know what I’m doing, like I belong here - as I settle back into the black leather sofa, cross one leg over the other, and enjoy the view. This is it, what I was hoping for - exposure to the real thing, to actual people doing this with each other for fun, not as part of porn, not to entertain somebody else, not a projection in my mind of my own clumsy fantasies. </p><p> </p><p>My attention is drawn to a couple that are on the spanking bench - two women, as far as I can tell, both of them the unique Etheria Station blend of Old Etherian and Eternian, with the typical hint of lilac to their skin tones and the slight point to their ears. </p><p> </p><p>It makes me want to laugh, all those years of dedicated study of the different species of the galaxy, and here I am using that knowledge to try to guess at the geneology of two strangers who are fucking in front of me in a BDSM club. </p><p> </p><p>No, but they aren’t quite fucking. It’s got all the energy and intimacy and intensity of sex, but the one tied to the bench still has underwear on, and the one who did the tying is touching her everywhere <em> except </em> her genitals. I uncross and recross my legs as the standing partner - The Top, I categorize with a lazy generalization, since I figure I’m not exactly going to chat with these strangers to get a better idea of the nuance of their dynamic - pulls on an inky black nitrile glove, and then another. She strokes her partner’s thighs, squeezes, presses down hard. I admire the way flesh yields to gloved hands. I wish I’d bought a drink from the bar - even if it’s not alcoholic, it would be something to do while I watch. </p><p> </p><p>My observation of the scene is interrupted by movement from the corner of my eye; I look over and see the big woman from earlier in the week, the one who was with Catra, flop down onto a sofa across from me. Her legs splay broadly, her body language completely relaxed. She catches my eye and grins, and the sharpness of her canines confirms my assessment that she’s Old Etherian without much, if any, Eternian mixed in. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she says, “You were here a couple days ago, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer before leaning towards me, offering a broad hand for me to shake. “I’m Huntara.”</p><p> </p><p>I take her hand, shake it, try to remember why the name sounds familiar. Part of the month’s worth of working up my courage to come to this place included some in-depth browsing of their online chat network and event postings, so it’s likely the name is one I saw there. </p><p> </p><p>“Adora,” I say. I haven’t bothered with an alias; the intel suggests all the Horde information on me has been calling me She-Ra. I don’t linger long on the memory of the Eternian code name. All it does is remind me that I was only ever a tool to them. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re Horde,” Huntara says, without preamble. I try to flinch away, but she’s got my hand in her grip still, and she is <em> very </em> strong. “Easy. I’m just guessing. You’re new around here, yeah? I like Hordies. You’re safe with me.” She twists in her seat and releases my hand so that she can lift up the back of her leather vest and show me her brand. It makes me relax a little, reflexively thinking <em> I’m among friends </em> until I remember ex-Horde deserters who might recognize me are exactly who I should be avoiding.</p><p> </p><p>But then, her brand is <em> old, </em>and so is she. </p><p> </p><p>I have questions. I have a lot of them. Just who is she? Why is her name familiar to me? How long has she been on Etheria Station? Are she and Catra… an item? I pick out the most immediate, most important question.</p><p> </p><p>“How did you know I was Horde?” </p><p> </p><p>“Body language, mostly,” she shrugs. “I’ve seen enough come through this place that I’ve learned to pick up on all the little, subtle things. The way you sit. The way you walk. The way you always know where the exits are.” This last remark comes as I’m - I <em> thought </em> subtly - reminding myself of the shortest path to the fire escape. “Relax,” she chuckles, sprawling back on the couch and somehow managing to take up the entire thing. “Nobody here gives a shit, and if they do, I kick them out.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh. I suddenly remember where I know her name from. </p><p> </p><p>“You own the club,” I blurt. I guess I probably should have pieced it together - she looks every inch of someone who’d own a kink club on a remote space station in the middle of an ancient minefield. She’s enormous, jacked, and - considering how slowly Old Etherians age - probably at least in her fifties. Not to mention she’s got a voice like the growl of an especially smug sounding engine room during full thrust.</p><p> </p><p>I am, I realize to my surprise, a little attracted to her. My eyes catch on her powerful knuckles, her strong jaw, her languid posture. </p><p> </p><p>The sort of person who wouldn’t take any shit from anybody - just like Catra. Hah. Maybe <em> that’s </em> my type. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she grins, “I own the club. This is my own personal little safe haven.” I <em> really </em>wish I had a drink, because I am completely at a loss for what to do with my hands now. I cross my arms in front of myself, but then worry that looks too closed off, too confrontational, and peel them away from my torso, set one on the arm of my sofa and the other awkwardly beside my waist. I suddenly have no idea what normal people do with their hands during conversation. </p><p> </p><p>“How long have you owned this place?” I ask, as much to continue the conversation as to hopefully distract her from how extremely weird I’m being about my hands. Most of my fear that she’ll figure me out and turn me over to the Horde is waning, although worst case scenarios continue to float to the top of my mind. If she’s really friends with a lot of Horde deserters, that could mean she’s actually part of a network of old Horde loyalists stationed here, and that she could coordinate enough of them to actually work together and abduct me from the club without the non-Horde attendees realizing anything is amiss. She could take a payoff from someone to let them know when I’m here at the club, and to tell them when I leave so that they can tail me back to my quarters. </p><p> </p><p>Ugh, it was so fucking stupid to even come here. Of course the only kink club on the station is owned by an ex Horde soldier. That just fucking figures. I should find an excuse to leave. </p><p> </p><p>“I bailed on the Horde about twenty years ago. Little more than that.” She shrugs, grins. </p><p> </p><p><em> (I like her teeth, </em> whispers a hungry voice in a soft, urgent tone that manages to cut through my boiling fear and paranoia. <em> I wonder if she bites as hard as Catra does.) </em></p><p> </p><p>“I scraped together the money to buy the space for this place like twelve years ago. I can’t wait for the fifteenth anniversary bash. The tenth anniversary party was <em> crazy. </em>We had an exhibition game of tug of war between two hardcore masochists - you ever seen a meat hook? Fucking insane.” </p><p> </p><p>I don’t know what a meat hook is, but I <em> do </em> know what tug of war is, and the vague description gives me just enough of an idea that I feel a little queasy. Maybe I’m <em> not </em>a masochist after all, if that’s what that entails. </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds wild,” I say, unable to muster much enthusiasm, feeling a little intimidated by the glint in her eye as she recalls this occasion. I need a subject change, stat. “So, uh. How many of the people who come here are ex-Horde?” </p><p> </p><p>“Probably I’d say, between ten and thirty percent?” Her head turns. “Ah, and there’s one. But I think you two already know each other.”</p><p> </p><p>My eyes snap up to where Huntara is looking. </p><p> </p><p>Adrenaline, rage, hunger, frustration - it all floods my body as Catra appears at the top of the stairs. I could get up and leave, but the idea of yielding territory to her so easily rubs me the wrong way. Maybe if I glare at her hard enough from here, she’ll politely ignore the way Huntara is now beckoning her over. </p><p> </p><p>Catra looks from me to Huntara, then back to me. She <em> smirks. </em>The little fucking shit. </p><p> </p><p>I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her as she walks towards us, can’t make myself get up out of my seat. I’m rooted in place, held there by the power of her hips as they swing back and forth. </p><p> </p><p>She’s wearing a shirt tonight, but it’s only barely a shirt, and from the way I can <em> very </em>clearly see her nipples through it, she’s apparently not wearing anything under it. The wispy, soft-looking navy blue material shifts and slides against her invitingly, leaving her stomach entirely exposed. She has skin-tight pants on that are either black or dark blue, hard to tell, and show off every ripple of muscle in her thighs and calves as she saunters over. </p><p> </p><p>I’m briefly struck with the realization that I was <em> incredibly </em>lucky that she decided to sleep with me back when we were in that training program together. Never in my life could I have successfully courted someone as gorgeous as her on my own. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey kitten,” Huntara growls, grinning, and I nearly jump from the shock at the sound of the familiar address on her lips. She says it like it’s something deliciously dirty, patting her lap, and Catra drapes herself luridly over Huntara without an instant of hesitation or distaste. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she says in return, slipping an arm over Huntara’s shoulders, turning herself towards me with a raised eyebrow. “Making new friends?”</p><p> </p><p>“This is Adora,” Huntara says, and I reel with how much I like the sound of my name said in her gravelly voice, “but I think you already knew that.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve met,” Catra purrs, and catches my eye with such an intensely predatory aura that I feel momentarily trapped, panicked. I need to leave. She’s <em> entirely </em> too happy with herself. Something is wrong. Something is up. Something is suspicious. </p><p> </p><p>“I should head home,” I hear myself saying. So much for not giving Catra any ground. Dammit. </p><p> </p><p>“Really? You just got here.”</p><p> </p><p>Of course Huntara took note of what time I got here. She owns this place. It’s in her best interest to pay attention to new, unfamiliar faces. </p><p> </p><p>“I uh - yeah, looks like all the equipment is in use, so, uh, I’ll come back another time,” I blurt, inventing the first excuse that comes to mind. Catra watches my blundering with silent amusement, her smile broad and cunning and deeply entertained. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, were you going to play tonight?” Huntara asks with genuine-sounding curiosity. And then, before I can answer this question, “You top, or you bottom? Or both?” </p><p> </p><p>“Top,” I say quickly. That isn’t strictly true, but there’s absolutely no way I’m ever letting myself be put into a position of vulnerability while Baron Hordak is still out for my blood. Why yes, I am a highly sought after target, wanted by a powerful empire, let me just allow you to gag me and tie me up - yeah, not fucking happening. </p><p> </p><p>Catra’s amused smile goes from chuckling to <em> cackling. </em> I’m glad it’s dark in the club, because I can feel how hot I’m blushing from the way her smirk turns <em> knowing.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I’ve seen that smirk before, seen it from a position on my knees in the back corner of a dark supply closet with a clawed hand on the back of my neck. </p><p> </p><p>Catra knows better than anybody else that I’m not exclusively a top.</p><p> </p><p>Huntara doesn’t seem to pick up on this unspoken exchange between Catra and I - in fact, her reaction to my answer seems to be mild disappointment. </p><p> </p><p>Wait. Was she <em> hitting on me?  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Anyways, I just remembered something I have to do. So. Uh. Nice to meet you, I’m going to go.” </p><p> </p><p>“Bye Adora,” Catra sing-songs after me, and I try to calm the thumping of my heart. </p><p> </p><p>I have to walk down the stairs and past all the happy clusters of people engaged in bringing their wild fantasies to life. I look wistfully at them - flogging, spanking, keening, moaning, begging, whispering, surrendering, mastering, and very thoroughly <em> enjoying </em> one another - and have to fight the urge to stay. I look up at the loft, fully expecting to find Catra watching me leave, but she’s now straddling Huntara’s waist, and Huntara’s thick, powerful fingers are slowly sliding up her sides, lifting up that cute little shirt.</p><p> </p><p>Bitter, irrational jealousy curdles in my throat.</p><p> </p><p>I realize, as I push past a startled Laturnian on my way to the door, that I’m jealous of their total lack of fear. Apparently there are hundreds of Horde defectors living happy, well-adjusted lives on this station, so unimportant to Horde Prime’s grand plan that they are forgotten the instant they slip past the boundaries of the Fright Zone.</p><p> </p><p>I wish angrily that I could be unimportant, for once. </p><p> </p><p>I wish I could be nobody.</p><p> </p><p>I wish I could get a mindless job as a dock worker, brazenly wander the station exploring restaurants and tasting food, and willingly trust strangers in sex clubs. </p><p> </p><p>I wish I could burn this stupid wig.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, I make sure I take a new route home, and I check periodically over my shoulder the entire time. My hand touches reflexively at the bare patch of my thigh that ought to have my holster against it; I miss the comfort of my weapon ferociously. </p><p> </p><p>Once I’m out of the stale, close, warm air of the club - out into the stale, recycled, dry air of the station proper - I start to feel a little silly for rushing out. I might have learned something if I’d stayed, might have gotten Catra chatting a little with Huntara there to distract her and maybe even lower her guard a little. </p><p> </p><p>I’m still sure she’s here as an operative of Shadow Weaver’s, but I’m less convinced that I’m her true target. The timing seems perhaps opportunistic - if Shadow Weaver knew a lot of defectors were appearing on Etheria Station’s doorstep, she might have sent Catra along with the mass exodus to blend in and go slightly less remarked upon, even if they couldn’t have anticipated I’d end up on this station. </p><p> </p><p>Or could they have? How many other places were left for me to run to, anyways? It’s not like I was going to go throwing myself happily back into the Eternians' arms, after -</p><p> </p><p>Nope, nope, I’m not thinking about that now. </p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>I glance around for a distraction, set my eyes on a flashing neon sign advertising something that must be a type of food, from the dancing image of a steaming bowl beside it. My stomach growls. I pivot suddenly and turn inside; savory steam fills my lungs. </p><p> </p><p>Definitely food. I sit down at the bar, point at the picture of something at random, and then at the picture of something I’m pretty sure is alcoholic, and then wave my wrist over the payment device the merchant extends towards me.</p><p> </p><p>The food arrives within minutes, and I have no idea what it is but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. I finish it and order seconds.</p><p> </p><p>This is, I decide unambiguously, the best decision I have made all night.</p><p> </p><p>Next time I go to the Crimson Wastes, maybe I should eat something first, make sure I’m feeling sturdy and bolstered and warm inside before I face the possibility of a fourth encounter with Catra. </p><p> </p><p>Because I already know, even with how disastrous my night has been, that I’ll be going back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Adora,” a voice comes through my door, followed by a polite knock, “There’s someone here to see you.” </p><p> </p><p>I fight the surge of panic, cursing myself for not making better progress on finding someone on this stupid space station who can sell me a stunner.</p><p> </p><p>“Who is it?” I ask, already positioning myself beside the door, ready to quickly unlock and open it with a wrist movement and promptly kick whoever walks through directly in the throat. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s just us,” I hear Glimmer say, and I let out the breath I’m holding. I straighten up from my attack position, gesturing for the door to open just a moment before I think to worry about how many empty bottles are visible from the threshold. I move to stand in the way, blocking their view inside, as the door slides open. “Oh. Hey,” Glimmer says, like she’s surprised to see me, and I don’t understand why she’s looking at me like that until I realize her eyes aren’t on my face, they’re on my <em> scalp.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” I mutter, touching the messy inch-and-a-half crop of hair, brushing it back awkwardly in comprehension. “Yeah, I - wasn’t planning on going out again tonight.” It sits strangely in my stomach to think they’ve never seen me without the wig before. When I first came to the station, it was Angella I met with in secret, and Angella who arranged for my requested supplies - the wig, the clothes, the makeup, the living quarters hidden in the back of this bakery. I didn’t meet these two until I was established a little more firmly in my disguise. </p><p> </p><p>“I kind of forgot that wasn’t your real hair,” Bow admits. “I mean, I knew it couldn’t be, obviously, but - “ </p><p> </p><p>I shrug, hoping it comes off as indifference. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s up?” I ask pointedly, and am vaguely proud that this is what comes out of my mouth instead of a curt <em> why are you here </em> or <em> what’s so important that you didn’t just ping me a message?  </em></p><p> </p><p>“We’re going out tonight,” Glimmer announces, “and you’re coming with us.” </p><p> </p><p>I frown.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m trying to keep a low profile.”</p><p> </p><p>“Adora, you can’t hide in here forever. You’ll go crazy.” Bow says, and I think I see him sneaking a glance around me at the contents of my quarters. “Besides, if you’re right about that Horde agent spotting you, they already know you’re here. What’s the point of making yourself miserable and never going out if it isn’t accomplishing anything?”</p><p> </p><p>I study them both, dressed up and glossed up for a night of fun. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going dancing.” I say bluntly. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, you’ve made it <em> perfectly </em> clear you don’t want to learn to dance,” Glimmer says, and I think maybe there’s some sort of implied apology wrapped up in that exasperated sounding sentence. “We weren’t going to drag you to a dance club. But you haven’t even started experiencing what other sorts of things the station has to offer.” I think of the Crimson Wastes, suppress a little smirk. If only she knew. “We’re going to this place I think you’ll really like. It’s called SuperTapas, and you basically sit in front of a conveyor belt and all sorts of shareable dishes of food come by, and you just grab anything that catches your eye and split it with the table. They have over a hundred different kinds of cuisine and I’ve never in my life picked something off the belt that I didn’t like.”</p><p> </p><p>I can feel my mouth watering at the concept - I’d been just about to rehydrate a nutrient packet but this sounds so much better. Sensing my weakness, Glimmer launches into a poetic description of some of the best dishes she’s ever had at SuperTapas, and after the third one I put my hands up in surrender.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I say, “Okay, fine, I’ll go. Let me just put the stupid wig back on.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to wear that if you don’t want to, you know,” Bow says. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course I do,” I mutter, before stopping to wonder if he’s right. I do, don’t I? I go to my bathroom, braving the mirror and studying my face; I card my fingers through my short, shaggy hair, pushing it back on the left side and tilting my head at various angles, but I can’t see the scar through it. I wind my index finger along the path it follows below the hair, starting at my left temple and scything down towards the base of my ear. Invisible now, beneath the scruff.</p><p> </p><p>It feels perverse, honestly, to have let it grow this long. This is so far past regulation that it makes me a little queasy and nervous just to look at it. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s cute!” Glimmer says cheerily, standing inside my room now, peering after me into the bathroom. I jump, tense, glower - after years as a Force Captain, I’m used to my space being respected and permission to enter being explicitly asked for. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a mess,” I grumble, not sure how to articulate to my assigned handlers that I’d like them to get the fuck out of my personal quarters please and thank you. “I should just wear the wig.” </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, all you need is a little product in it,” Bow remarks, following Glimmer in. “I guess that’s… not a thing in the Fright Zone, huh.” I grit my teeth against his pity. I’m used to it. There have been a lot of foreign, frivolous things that they’ve brought up over the last couple months that I’ve never heard of, never conceived of, that seem to make them think my life was one of endless suffering before coming here. </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, ‘product’?” I ask, since this is about the vaguest possible noun he could have chosen. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, like… hair gel, or hair wax, or hair spray,” he explains. “Glimmer might have something that could work for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or you could find out how you look in <em> hats,” </em>Glimmer adds excitedly. </p><p> </p><p>“Or I could just put the wig on,” I grunt, but the idea of not having to wear it is… appealing. </p><p> </p><p>By the time we arrive at SuperTapas, it’s two hours later and I’ve allowed these aggressively bubbly Etherians to drag me back to Glimmer’s quarters and play with my hair and put fruity-smelling slimy stuff in it, and I’ve given up on wondering if I’ll ever see someone familiar looking back at me in the mirror again. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe that Adora is gone. Maybe that Adora really did die back on Krytis. </p><p> </p><p>I’ve resigned myself to just enduring this miserable evening when I put the first piece of mysterious food into my mouth and am jolted awake by a shocking array of flavors. I don’t even have names for everything I’m tasting - sweet, salty, savory? They seem like such basic, inelegant, elemental terms. Whatever is happening in my mouth is above and beyond such mediocre attempts at definition. I scrunch my eyebrows together, and then close my eyes altogether to better concentrate on what I’m tasting. What <em> is </em> this? How is it so <em> good?? </em></p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s safe to assume she likes it,” Bow chuckles, and I decide I’d rather grab another plate off the conveyor belt than respond to him. </p><p> </p><p>When the first round of beer arrives, I actually <em> relax </em>just a little. It feels good, the endless possibility of flavor that is the conveyor belt running through our table, the lack of strange weight on my head and neck, the comforting chatter between my handlers that has, for once, nothing to do with the Horde or the Eternians or the running of the station. </p><p> </p><p>It reminds me of the mess hall on board the Deft Scythe. I smile around a sip of beer, thinking of Lonnie and Kyle and Rogelio, memories of their banter warm in my chest. I wonder where they are, how they’re doing. Lonnie made Force Captain too, last I’d heard, but the other two have been lost to me for years ever since I made the leadership fast track at fourteen.</p><p> </p><p>“See,” Glimmer says, catching my smile, “You needed this. It’s not good for you to stay cooped up in your apartment, drinking alone.” </p><p> </p><p>Ah. So they <em> did </em> notice the collection of bottles, then. I need to figure out the right time of day to take out my garbage that won’t attract Netossa or Spinnerella’s attention, but they wake up so damn early to start baking bread every day that I can never sneak out past them. I have a suspicion that’s part of why Angella placed me in those specific quarters, even if it did also happen to meet my requirements of being hidden from the main corridors and not part of an obvious residential zone.</p><p> </p><p>“Everybody needs food,” I say diplomatically, after I swallow my mouthful of beer. I eye another mysterious plate of food that drifts past alluringly. “You know, for staying alive.” </p><p> </p><p>“You <em> know </em> what I mean,” Glimmer snorts. “I’m talking about <em> relaxing.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Some sort of idea enters her head then, and I can actually <em> see </em> the moment that it does, from the way she sits up straighter and her eyes flash with delight above a sudden smile. </p><p> </p><p>“Bow,” she hisses excitedly, “I should take her to Salineas!” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know, Glimmer,” he counters, looking uncertain. I decide to snag that passing plate at the last moment, seizing it right before it travels too far out of reach. I don’t know what it is but it smells good and - I find out very quickly - it tastes good, too. “Salineas might be a bit much for her. I know you mostly go there for the hot tub but most people… don’t go there just for the hot tub.” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s Salineas?” I ask through my food, already impatient with their hedging, and when they don’t answer me right away I pull it up on my wrist implant. </p><p> </p><p>Oh. It’s a sex club. I laugh suddenly, nearly choking on my mouthful of whatever-I-just-ate. </p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t know you had it in you, Commander,” I tease, and enjoy the way this makes Glimmer’s cheeks go pink. I wipe my mouth on the back of my arm, skimming through pictures. Oh, <em> right, </em>I remember this one from when I was on the search that led me to the Crimson Wastes. Club Salineas is less about kink and more just about fucking and hookups, with the main draw being the water features - the hot tub, the heated pool, the steam room, all clothing optional. “Oh, hey,” I murmur, intrigued, “the bar at this place actually serves alcohol.” </p><p> </p><p>“I feel like maybe I should be a little worried that that’s your main criteria for whether you want to go somewhere,” Bow says absently, and I choose not to respond to that mild expression of concern.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, so, <em> do </em> you want to go?” Glimmer asks, sounding surprised even though she was the one on the verge of suggesting it. I shrug, taking a swig of beer. </p><p> </p><p>“Could I keep my clothes on?” I obviously have no intention of doing anything sexual with or around one of my Etherian handlers, but I’m enjoying my wigless freedom and the beer and, honestly, enjoying the thought of <em> more </em> beers, regardless of the location. Besides, I remember that Salineas also, apparently, has a little dungeon area. I didn’t bother investigating further once I’d found the Crimson Wastes, but maybe Salineas could serve as a good alternative. </p><p> </p><p>(A Catra-free alternative.)</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, there are usually a few people there who wear a bathing suit or underwear instead of going naked,” Glimmer says quickly, and I can see she’s getting invested in the idea of dragging me to this place. “It’s honestly really relaxing, and really freeing. The water’s always so warm and soothing. <em> And,” </em>she says, sitting up a little straighter, grinning, “tonight just so happens to be a women-only night.”</p><p> </p><p>“You planned this, didn’t you,” Bow sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Girls’ night!!” Glimmer squeaks with sudden enthusiasm; I grimace at the onslaught of dazzling earnestness and chug the rest of my beer. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re buying me another round first,” I tell her, wearing my sternest expression, even if I am, admittedly, kind of excited to be checking out a new place. Could Glimmer have known her suggestion would be so relevant to my, <em> uh </em> - recent frustrations, and failed attempts to relieve them? </p><p> </p><p>I can just picture these two gossiping about me, discussing what they think I need more of (sex) or less of (booze) in my life. They try once or twice a week to convince me to go out with them after work. Ugh. And relenting tonight will probably just encourage them to push harder. </p><p> </p><p>I’m going to get myself killed or kidnapped because Etherians don’t understand the concept of <em> laying low.  </em></p><p> </p><p>But, fuck it, I think, tapping the table’s drink interface to order another beer for myself, maybe I deserve a night of being sloppy and making bad choices. At least I’ve got an ally watching my back tonight. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>It takes a surprising amount of strength to swing open the heavy front door, but once I do I’m blasted with heat and music and the smell of chlorine. </p><p> </p><p><em> Yes. </em>This is where I want to be. </p><p> </p><p>I’m feeling buzzed, reckless, and loose. I’m ready to see why Glimmer likes hot tubs so much and to maybe even get hit on. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Glimmer says, grinning, and leads me through a scanner - the signs posted around it say all recording devices and energy weapons are prohibited - and then through a checkpoint where we sign an agreement with our wrist chips saying we understand the club’s rules of consent and appropriate behaviour, all to the background noise of thumping, bass-heavy music. </p><p> </p><p>Glimmer pulls me excitedly inside the club. The smell of chlorine is so much stronger once we’re past security; the lights are low in the immediate entrance, where a cluster of naked and mostly-naked people are throbbing in time with the deft orchestrations of the DJ, and we push our way past their writhing masses to get to a long, well-lit locker room. </p><p> </p><p>I think it’s possible I was hit by a runaway transport hauler on the way out of SuperTapas and am now in one of the supposedly wonderful afterlife dimensions I’ve heard the station’s merchant district preachers rave about. </p><p> </p><p>Naked women walk past everywhere, of every wonderful shape and size and species. Heat and hunger stir between my legs as my eyes dart back and forth, overwhelmed by the buffet of options of different places to stare. A tall woman with hair shaved right to her scalp bends over her locker and, to my surprise, there’s no Horde brand on her lower back. Giggling, a short, curvy Laturnian woman presses her noseless face against an Etherian’s neck, kissing her shamelessly. </p><p> </p><p>Glimmer catches my eye, smirks, raises an eyebrow. I swallow hard and follow her to our lockers, which open with a wave of our wrists and each contain a fluffy white towel. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” I ask defensively. </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” Glimmer says cheerfully. “Just smug that I was right about pegging you as gay.”</p><p> </p><p>I snort a little laugh, pulling my jacket off and leaving my tank top on.</p><p> </p><p>“All it takes to figure <em> that </em> out is a pair of functional eyes. Maybe not even that. I’ve been told more than once that I’m not subtle.” I tug my boots off, tuck them into the locker. I find I’m not bothered at all that Glimmer is stripping naked next to me; nudity isn't especially shocking, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve seen so many naked bodies in my lifetime of communal showers that it strikes me as <em> more </em> strange to be friends with someone you’ve never seen without their clothes on. </p><p> </p><p>Still - I haven’t seen any Horde brands around the club yet, so far, and so I keep my shirt and boxer briefs on. I don’t know if there’ll be some way to dry them off at the end of the night, but I’ll take a soggy walk home over awkward stares from strangers. Something tells me that an environment like the one at the Crimson Wastes, where being ex-Horde is seen as no big deal, is something that has to be deliberately fostered and enforced… and this casual, giggly, whimsical sex club is probably not that kind of place. </p><p> </p><p>After the locker room we step through the crisp blue light of a decontamination archway and then into the main room of Club Salineas. </p><p> </p><p>Light dances off of the glittering, rippling blue waters of the large indoor pool, reflecting up onto the ceiling which pulses in an array of colors to the beat of the music. I feel like I’m in a fever dream, walking through crowds of naked, smiling, laughing, dancing, flirting, kissing women. </p><p> </p><p><em> This </em> is not something I ever would have found anywhere in the Horde. </p><p> </p><p>My eyes catch and linger on three women who are entangled together on one of the shiny red seating areas that ring the pool, clearly in the midst of impassioned fucking. I don’t mean to stare, but I <em> do </em> stare. They’re oblivious to the rest of the world, dappled in a whorl of oil-spill rainbow lighting as their bodies writhe and thrust and pulse. </p><p> </p><p>“Pool first,” Glimmer says, sounding so damn delighted, and I wonder at the notion that she comes here to <em> relax.  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> “Drink </em> first,” I counter, as I yank my eyes away from the sex and across the crowds of people engaged in foreplay and finally find the poolside bar. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Glimmer sighs, and we wiggle our way through the crowds to the bar. I buy a beer and she buys something pink and pretty that comes in a decorative glass with a wild zigzagging stem. I let her drag me to the pool; as promised, it’s magnificently warm. We wade into the shallow end with our drinks held above the water, then swim to an unoccupied length of wall where we can sit and tread water and set our drinks down on the side. </p><p> </p><p>“So now what?” I ask, hooking my elbows over the edge of the side. Glimmer smiles, sinks into the water up to her chin, takes a deep breath, and then exhales with such loud satisfaction that I can hear it without any problem over the thudding of the music. </p><p> </p><p>“Now you just... chill. You let the warm water ease your tension. You watch beautiful women kissing each other. You forget about the stresses of your job, and just exist in the moment, and breathe, and float in your own body for a while.” </p><p> </p><p>I roll my eyes but smile just a little; she’s got good intentions, even if I can’t help but think she’s got no idea what real stress is. </p><p> </p><p>The water does feel nice, though. I take a sip of my beer, and the contrast of the cold, smooth liquid travelling down my throat against the encompassing heat of the pool feels… actually really good. The easy movement of my limbs through the water reminds me of what good rehab swimming is - nice and low strain on the joints. And the music, which seemed on the verge of obnoxious when we walked in, is kind of comforting in its steady beat and lyricless throbbing. </p><p> </p><p>I let my eyes slide over the other people in the pool with us, like Glimmer suggested. I try to enjoy the sight of couples touching, kissing, exploring each other, water sloshing around their bodies as they forge new connections, flirting openly as they make intentions clear. My throat feels dry and sticky as I watch a Capriform back another woman up against the side of the pool, their bodies just barely not touching. The one against the wall smiles, touches the thigh of the woman bracketing her against cool, smooth tile. I reach for my beer.</p><p> </p><p>“Mother of stars,” Glimmer murmurs beside me, “look at <em> her. </em>She’s gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody like her.” She gestures with her chin and I follow the indication to the other side of the pool, directly across from us. </p><p> </p><p>And there she is, looking right back at me from under lowered eyelids, cradling a glass of white wine in one hand, arm perched in languid relaxation against the side of the pool. Her clawed fingers hold the glass with a light elegance in sharp contrast with the danger and violence of those claws; the ease of her muscles as she seems to melt happily into the water feels like a blunt mockery of how on edge I’ve been for the last two months since I saw her. </p><p> </p><p>I look at her and all I can think about is the way her lips felt against mine for that brief moment of fervor in the hotel room. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I hiss, as quietly as I can. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” Glimmer asked, still openly ogling Catra. “She not your type?” Something surprisingly heated enters her tone. “She’s certainly <em> mine.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>I haven’t taken my eyes off of Catra; she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. I see her <em> smirk </em> at Glimmer’s remark. </p><p> </p><p>“You remember that Feleuri I was telling you about?” I mutter, sure now that no matter how much I lower my voice, Catra will pick it up. “That’s her.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” Glimmer blurts. “The Horde spy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” I snap, breaking eye contact with Catra to glare at Glimmer. “And watch what you say. She can hear us.” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s no way,” Glimmer snorts. I wonder if maybe she’s drunk. I’ve never had a reason to know what her alcohol tolerance is before. “The music is so loud and we’re across the entire pool.”</p><p> </p><p>“Trust me,” I growl, then flick my attention back over to Catra. She’s still watching us. An idea occurs to me; I take a long, slow drink from my beer, holding eye contact with Catra the entire time. Then I set it back on the side of the pool, and in a low voice that I know Glimmer will hear, say, “Hey Catra. Wink if you can hear me.” </p><p> </p><p>Catra raises an eyebrow, then smiles with the same slow, deliberate drawl that I sipped my beer. Instead of winking, she lifts her free hand, curls her fingers inwards, then clearly displays just the middle one for me. She holds it for one heartbeat, two heartbeats, long enough to ensure I’ve seen it, then pushes off the wall and wades back to the stairs. I watch maybe a little more closely than is necessary as she saunters out, completely naked, brand on full, fearless display. </p><p> </p><p>“Wow,” Glimmer exhales, as Catra’s tail gives a dramatic little parting flick, water caressing her ass and thighs, streaming down her moisture-darkened fur. </p><p> </p><p>Yeah, I want to say. Wow. Fucking <em> wow.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I don’t see her again for the rest of the night, to my chagrin. Every moment for the next two hours is consumed with looking for her. Glimmer takes me on a tour of the club’s facilities, pausing to experience each one - hot tub, steam room, sauna, dance floor, down a corridor of curtained-off alcoves full of people fucking (I wonder if Catra is sequestered in one of them) and then to the little 'dungeon', which seems like a sad sort of afterthought compared to the grandeur of the pool area. It feels like the designers of the club were just throwing a bone to the kinky people, including a single small room with a hard point and a wall with steel rings for clipping restraints into, but there’s at least one couple in there doing something that looks kind of fun that involves a gag and a vibrator and a lot of rope. </p><p> </p><p>But Glimmer wants to go back to the hot tub for one last soak before we head out for the night, so we don’t linger there long. </p><p> </p><p>I’m crouched in front of my locker, tying up the laces of my boots, when I see the clawed feet enter my vision.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Adora,” Catra says, and I quickly scramble to stand. She leans casually against the bank of lockers, and I realize with a twist of anger that I’ve left my guard down: Glimmer is in the showers and I’m alone. “Next time you get the urge to give me a command? Do it properly and negotiate my consent first.” It’s a demand, an accusation, an invitation all in one. </p><p> </p><p>It’s hot in my mouth, like my tongue is coated in raw spices, and I worry about what will happen to my insides if I swallow it down. Her eyes are hard as she turns away, but I think I see her fighting down a grin. For just a fraction of a second, her tail grazes against my wrist, and then she’s gone. </p><p> </p><p>I’m still standing there gaping when Glimmer appears, toweling herself off and looking like she actually, somehow, had a lovely and rejuvenating time tonight. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The next time I go to the Crimson Wastes, Catra isn’t there. I stay there for four hours watching scenes, drinking juice, waiting for her to appear. </p><p> </p><p>She never does. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>I go again a few days later. Still no Catra.</p><p> </p><p>This time I stay four and a half hours, and only leave when the club closes for the night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Another week later I’m sipping from a bottle of water at the bar, watching Huntara press her boot heel into a very enthusiastically gasping woman’s thigh, when Catra wanders inside. For once, she actually looks surprised to see me: she stops, startled, in the entryway. She’s wearing a loose grey hoodie and a pair of station-style pants with the big loopy outer shapes of fabric that seem to be the fashion trend of the season - a far cry from her usual sultry club outfits. She recovers quickly, flashes me a strangled-looking grin, and then turns her back to me and wanders over to the little cubbies beside the entrance where people stash any extra belongings or toys they bring. </p><p> </p><p>I take a drink of my water, armpits itching with nervous sweat, as I watch her undress. </p><p> </p><p>I wonder what she’s thinking as she peels the sweatshirt up and over her head, revealing that she’s got nothing on underneath except a cute black sports bra. I know she can smell my perspiration, I know she can hear my heart rate. Maybe she can even pick up on the subtle combinations of breath and pulse and fear, add them all together and determine that what I’m doing is working up my courage.</p><p> </p><p>She shimmies out of her pants without so much as glancing back at me. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck <em> me, </em>of course she’s wearing a tiny little black thong tonight of all nights. </p><p> </p><p>My palm seems to pulse with the urgent need to cup that tight, beautiful little ass. </p><p> </p><p>I abandon the bottle of water at the bar and get to my feet. Catra doesn’t turn, but I see her ear flick. I close the gap between us as she shoves her pants and shirt into a cubby. I want to seize her, want to come up behind her, want to ambush her and hold her prisoner and take what I want without giving her any opportunity to take anything in return. </p><p> </p><p>No. That’s the fear talking. That’s the anger. The jealousy. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey Adora,” she says, without turning. She sounds… wary. </p><p> </p><p>How much of the intensity burning inside of me is rising off of my skin like so much roiling steam, tangible to anybody with sharp enough senses?</p><p> </p><p>“Let me hit you,” I growl. I feel like a fucking animal, shameless and needing and wanting - recklessly in rut, following the call of a potential mate right into a hunter’s ambush.</p><p> </p><p>She turns to face me; I’m close enough that she has to back up against the cubbies to avoid touching me accidentally. I’m half expecting her to look afraid of me when I can finally see her face - especially with a greeting like <em> that.  </em></p><p> </p><p>To my delight, my amazement, she looks… <em> happy.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” She asks, airy, excited. Like she’s been <em> hoping.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I remind myself that she’s a good actress. That she climbed the ranks of Covert Ops so quickly for a reason. </p><p> </p><p>“Ground rules,” I say, quickly, “You don’t touch me. Your wrists are bound the entire time. And no kissing.” That should stop her from administering a hypo or a patch while I’m distracted and in touching range, and it’ll stop her from slipping something into my mouth directly out of her own.</p><p> </p><p>She’s the best of the best when it comes to deception and infiltration. It doesn’t hurt to be too careful.</p><p> </p><p>(Being careful, I remind myself, would be to <em> not </em> play with her at all.)</p><p> </p><p>But this should be perfectly safe, right? Even if she <em> is </em> a spy. As long as I know what I’m doing, never let my guard down, I can let myself have this.</p><p> </p><p>I can let myself have <em> her.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” she says thoughtfully. “We can try that.” Her face rolls from serious to teasing. “Not sure how much I’ll get out of that, but I’m willing to try it at least once. What do you want to hit me with?” </p><p> </p><p>I should probably have been ready for this question, but it still catches me off guard. I stumble, glancing at the wall of loaner toys next to the cubbies - <em> disinfect before and after use!!! </em> reminds a sign taped to the wall - and try to figure out which of them I’m most likely to know how to actually wield based on my… somewhat <em> theoretical </em> experience. </p><p> </p><p>Catra’s grin slides sharply into a smirk; the wrinkle at the corner of her mouth tugs at something deep inside me, hooks me and <em> pulls.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Maybe I want <em> her </em> to hit <em> me </em> instead. </p><p> </p><p>No. Absolutely not an option. </p><p> </p><p>“Never done this before, have you?” She asks. </p><p> </p><p>“I kind of have,” I mutter defensively, but cut myself off quickly. I don’t want her asking questions about what exactly that means. Elaborating would mean getting into exactly the kind of details about classified Eternian technology she’d have been sent here to get out of me in the first place. “No,” I say, accepting embarrassment over the risk of exposed secrets, “I haven’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, brushing past me and <em> very </em> deliberately not touching me as she does - which I am… weirdly thankful for, I find - and going to stand in front of the loaner wall. “Probably… this, I think.” She reaches for a short, simple leather strap, takes it down off the wall and offers it to me. “That work for you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” I say. I don’t really care. I have wanted this - wanted <em> her </em> - for months now. I can’t stop fucking thinking about her. I need to just <em> do </em> this and get it out of my <em> head.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I take the strap in my hands, run it across my palm, <em> feel </em> it. Firm. Pliant, but not floppy. I rub my fingers against the rounded off edges of it; the strap is as thick as my pinky finger and about as long as my forearm, and I find I like the weight that gives it. I give the material a test slap against my palm, like I’ve seen other people do at the club. I lay a harder hit against my inner arm, really <em> feel </em> the way the impact sings a harmony of pain and adrenaline and thrill through my skin. </p><p> </p><p>“This will work,” I say. I can make this hurt. I want her to hurt. I want to be the one to hurt her. </p><p> </p><p>She owes me that much, at least, for how exhausted with paranoia her presence has left me for the last three months. </p><p> </p><p>And that’s it, I tell myself, that’s all. This is - this is justice. This is getting it out of my system. </p><p> </p><p>Catharsis. </p><p> </p><p>Equality. </p><p> </p><p><em> Therapy, </em> I think laughingly, knowing Angella would <em> not </em> approve. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I say, signaling my readiness. I’m nervous - by most definitions, I <em> haven’t </em>ever done this before. But I’ve been running with fear as a crackling constant in the back of my mind for so long now that I hardly even notice it. </p><p> </p><p>“Where do you want me?” Catra purrs, still smirking like she’s the one in control here. </p><p> </p><p>Theoretically, between people who are <em>normal, </em>people who aren’t covert operatives or on the galaxy’s most wanted list, both participants are completely in control. And this is <em>sort</em> of like that - negotiated beforehand, rules agreed to, limits in place. </p><p> </p><p>I look away from her and glance over the available stations. The spanking bench is unoccupied, and I walk towards it, expecting her to follow. </p><p> </p><p>The fact that she <em> does </em> makes my groin ache with desire. </p><p> </p><p>(My body remembers the whisper of her fangs against my lips, and I imagine them lower, and I want, I want, I <em> want - </em>)</p><p> </p><p>She comes up to the bench and with a surge of violence I grab her by the hair and push her down and onto it; she gasps, arches, <em> yields </em> to me. Once I’ve got her bent over the structure, ass in the air, I kneel down to buckle her wrists into the cuffs at the head. She’s already breathing hard. </p><p> </p><p>The jingling of the metal clasps as they come tight sends another hot throb between my legs, as does the sight of her hands flexing, testing the restraints. I luxuriate in the living art of shadow dancing along her tendons as she balls her fists, flicking down her throat as she swallows.</p><p> </p><p>I straighten up and put my hand between her shoulder blades, splaying my fingers wide, wanting to <em> touch and touch and touch </em> until she’s mine, all <em> mine.  </em></p><p> </p><p>She’s trapped. She can’t hurt me. She has my full attention, and that, of course, is dangerous in and of itself, but - </p><p> </p><p>My thumb brushes across the leather strap in my hand.</p><p> </p><p>But right now, I just don’t fucking care. </p><p> </p><p>I walk slowly from her head down to her hips, dragging my left hand along behind me through her fur. She shudders and flexes, and I find myself smirking. <em> I’m not sure I’ll get much out of this, indeed.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I take the strap and lay it lengthwise across her lower back; she whimpers and jerks at the unexpected touch, even though it isn’t anything resembling a hit. I leave it there so that both my hands are free, and then I come up behind her, straddling the lower part of the bench where her knees and calves are resting, and fill my palms with her warm, soft, strong thighs. She <em> sighs. </em>I feel like I’ve just given her good news she’s been anxiously waiting months for. </p><p> </p><p>I press my fingertips hard into her muscle, spreading the word of this news: the news of my arrival on the scene of her body.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re finally getting what you want, Catra, and I’m going to make damn well sure you wonder at least once if you were insane to have wanted me at all. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She whimpers at the harsh dig of my fingers. I say nothing as I seize her hard by the thighs, tighten my grip until her breath gets faster and faster and <em> faster, </em>right up to the edge of panic, and then - only then - do I release. She utters a delectable little sob.</p><p> </p><p>I move my hands up, kneading as I go, devouring her with my touch as much as I’m warming up her flesh and getting her blood flowing in preparation for the strap. </p><p> </p><p>She squirms beneath me, and I take incredible pleasure in refusing to let her escape. I hold her down, I massage ruthlessly, I claim each inch of her pretty, tight haunches. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, Adora,” she whispers, bucking beneath me, and I smirk more, even knowing she can’t see my face. I say nothing, still. This is for <em> me, </em>not her. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, I reach for the strap; as it slithers away from her lower back, a needy gasp catches in her throat. Yes, yes, yes. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. Gorgeous. Glorious. </p><p> </p><p>I take the strap in my right hand, press her hips down firmly against the bench with my left. </p><p> </p><p>“You want this?” I snarl. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she keens. </p><p> </p><p>“Good.” The word rumbles out of me, and it tastes better than any liquor I’ve found so far on this damned station. </p><p> </p><p>I lift my arm, and I <em> strike.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Catra doesn’t hold back, not even from the first hit, and at the unhinged, desperate sound of her cry I flatter myself with the brief fantasy that she’s been wanting this as badly as I have this entire time. </p><p> </p><p><em> Again, </em> the burning heat inside me demands, <em> more, harder.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Her tail flicks, passes in front of my face; I pause, consider it. Then I take it in my left hand, and as my fingers wrap around her tail Catra <em> moans. </em>I position it up against her lower back and hold it there so that she’s as exposed as it’s possible for her to be without taking her underwear off. </p><p> </p><p>Then I hit her <em> again.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The combination of sounds is so beautiful, so perfect, the <em> crack </em> of the strap and the burst of air from her pretty mouth. Not so smug now, is she? </p><p> </p><p>I hit her again, harder, and her gasp takes on a ragged edge. </p><p> </p><p>I hit again with less time between the swings.</p><p> </p><p>Again.</p><p> </p><p>And then again.</p><p> </p><p>Her gasps and whimpers and cries only encourage me. </p><p> </p><p>I want to push her to the edge. I want to know how far I can take this, how much I’m allowed to <em> hurt </em> her. </p><p> </p><p>I put more earnest strength into my next hit, and the sharp note in the resulting yelp suggests it wasn’t a pleasant one for her. </p><p> </p><p>I expected that maybe I’d like it, that I’d like playing with the boundaries of <em> fun hurt </em> and <em> real hurt, </em>but I find I’m shying away from hitting her that hard again. </p><p> </p><p>It isn’t her fault, what happened to me. </p><p> </p><p>It isn’t her fault if Shadow Weaver really did send her after me. </p><p> </p><p>It isn’t her fault she was raised as one of Baron Hordak’s experimental child soldiers any more that it’s my fault the same thing happened to me. </p><p> </p><p>I’m not doing this because I want to punish her somehow.</p><p> </p><p>I’m doing it because she’s beautiful, and magnetic, and always the most interesting person in any room, and because it makes me feel incredible to be the person making her come undone. </p><p> </p><p>And if she <em> is </em> a Horde spy sent to the station to track me down and somehow lure me into a trap so that the Horde can recapture me and interrogate me?</p><p> </p><p>Well. I’ll just have to make sure I pay attention and don’t walk into any obvious traps. </p><p> </p><p>I hit her again.</p><p> </p><p>She whimpers, soft and unguarded and needy, and my whole body responds to the noise with the desire to own, to protect, to hurt, to have. I want to make her tremble. I want to make her crumble. </p><p> </p><p>I want to laughingly steal the bait right off of Shadow Weaver’s trap and slip away without ever triggering it. </p><p> </p><p>I hit her again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“ - so we were hoping to get your interpretation on what that kind of redistribution of troops might mean,” Angella is saying, when I manage to snap my attention back to the conference room. </p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck. </em>It hasn’t even been two weeks and my mind is already full of her again. </p><p> </p><p>I need to see her again.</p><p> </p><p>I need to <em> hit </em> her again. </p><p> </p><p>I lean forward and study the starmap Angella has projected over the table, act like my pause is thoughtfulness as I quickly piece together whatever it was she explained while my thoughts were caught on the points of Catra’s glittering fangs. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s a defensive retreat formation,” I say, pointing it out. “But it’s too obvious, too clean. A feint, probably, to see if they can lure the Eternian forces in closer, or to disguise troop movements elsewhere. Nothing overt enough to break the treaty, not yet, but it’s certainly some kind of mind game.”</p><p> </p><p>Angella nods; Glimmer frowns severely and nods as well. </p><p> </p><p>Like children playing at war. Neither of them can do anything to impact the situation, no matter how hard they pretend. </p><p> </p><p>I pity them and then, on the heels of that pity, I pity myself. If they’re playing at war, so am I, sitting here giving them insight and advice. Some supersoldier I am, some Force Captain. </p><p> </p><p>Doomed to hide away on this isolated station for the rest of my life, stagnating. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So this is my great destiny - atrophy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I balk, mentally, from the insidious thought. </p><p> </p><p>I need a distraction from the creep of despair and shame.</p><p> </p><p>I need to go back to the Crimson Wastes again. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>I decide I trust Huntara.</p><p> </p><p>I trusted her instinctively when I first met her - she reminds me of so many of my old drill sergeants that muscle memory alone tells me I’m supposed to listen to her and respect her experience - but after a few weeks of knowing her, the actual information I gather about her seems to align with my gut feeling that she’s not a Horde loyalist or a sellout. </p><p> </p><p>The fact that she defected over twenty years ago already tells me something about her - if she’s an agent, the Station has had more than two decades to catch her at it, after all. </p><p> </p><p>I mention her name as casually as I can to Bow as a potential contact of Catra’s; he frowns at my dogged pursuit of <em> the Catra subject, </em> but assures me he’ll look into it. I wait a week and ask him about Huntara again when he’s distracted and his guard is down, and he answers me before he remembers I’m not supposed to be privy to the details of the investigation. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, we looked, and we’ve had a file on Huntara since she got here, but there’s basically a zero chance she’s still working for the Horde. She was actually involved in the founding of the therapy program for ex-soldiers - she approached the Administrator with the idea, or at least the seeds of what would become the idea, back around fifteen years ago. I guess she’d been doing the job of mentoring Horde defectors who came to the station that didn’t know how to adapt, and she was getting overwhelmed. So as far as her working with Catra, she - <em> wait.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Bow glares at me, and I see the little twitch in his jaw that indicates when he’s genuinely upset and not just performatively angry. They probably should have picked someone a little harder to manipulate to be their Spymaster. I flash him an innocent grin.</p><p> </p><p>So when Huntara comes to sit beside me at the Crimson Wastes bar, I find her company… reassuring. </p><p> </p><p>“Your baby fluff’s coming in nicely, blondie,” she grins, gesturing at my hair. I run my fingers through it sheepishly, pushing it back. Glimmer helped me pick out some ‘product’ of my own to put in it when I kept asking to borrow hers, and it’s been an ongoing experiment to figure out how to make it look presentable. I feel naked like this, but I still prefer it to the wig. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, I think,” I mutter, trying to suppress my pleased smile at the approval. I pick up the bottle of juice I just paid for, pause to inspect the seal around the edge of the cap like I always do. Unbroken. Good. I see Huntara watching me do this; I’m relieved when she doesn’t comment. </p><p> </p><p>Neither of us say anything for a moment; my eyes drift, irrevocably, over to the play area. Catra has turned herself over to the care of a lanky, skillful cyborg with short pink hair and precise, talented robotic fingers that steadily weave a web of rope around Catra’s naked torso. I admire the elegant knots, the way the binds both encase and accentuate. I crack open my drink and take an absent gulp. </p><p> </p><p>“I notice you haven’t played with her since that first time,” Huntara remarks. I glance at her, suddenly tense. </p><p> </p><p>What do I say to that? That I was hoping I only <em> needed </em> the one time, that my plan was only ever to do it once, get it out of my system, and then never give in to that dangerous temptation again? </p><p> </p><p>“She’s Horde,” I say, turning my gaze from Huntara and back over to Catra and the cyborg, watching them with what I hope looks like disaffected, academic interest. </p><p> </p><p>“We all were,” Huntara retorts, leaning back against the bar, splaying her arms behind her. Her relaxed body language takes the worst edge off of my discomfort at this conversation; it doesn’t feel like an accusation - it just feels like idle discussion. Again, I carefully observe the way I relax around her, and decide it’s probably safe to allow. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” I clarify, feeling certain of myself, “she still is.” I watch Catra carefully, watch her ears to see if there’s any indication that she’s listening to us talking. They’re craned towards her play partner, who is murmuring something as she tightens a length of rope. I see Catra gasp more than I hear it, see her chest expand as her lungs take in sudden breath, see her lips fall apart slightly, see her back arch. Hunger coils inside of me as surely as if I’ve just walked past a storefront wafting the smell of hot food. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s an accusation you should be careful with,” Huntara says in quiet, friendly warning. “Loyalists aren’t welcome here.” From my peripherals, I see a hunger in her expression that mirrors my own. “And I happen to like her, so it’d be a shame to have to ban her.” </p><p> </p><p>I find myself grinning for just a brief moment at the unexpected solidarity. Yeah. A real damn shame. But the grin falls away as the conversation turns serious again.</p><p> </p><p>“You have proof?” Huntara asks.</p><p> </p><p>“She can hear us right now, you know,” I point out. </p><p> </p><p>Huntara nods appreciatively at my caution, and again I feel the little flush of pleasure at her approval.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think she’s listening,” She says, after a moment of observation. “I know you’re newer to this stuff - no, don’t get all huffy with me, kid, I’ve been doing this for decades, I can <em> tell </em>- so you might not know this, but - “ she gestures at Catra, blindfolded and bound, pliantly being manipulated by her partner. “She’s pretty deep in ropespace right now. I think we’re talking quietly enough that it’s not really getting through. Tallstar’s a chatty top, anyways, when she does rope scenes. That’s probably holding most of her attention.” I look up at Catra’s partner and realize Huntara’s right; the cyborg’s lips are moving in a slow, endless litany of words and commentary that are just for Catra’s ears. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Is that something Catra likes? Is that something I should -  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I push the thought down. </p><p> </p><p>“She could be faking,” I say.</p><p> </p><p>“She could be,” Huntara agrees. “You’re pretty paranoid, huh?” </p><p> </p><p>I feel my jaw come tight, but something about the way Huntara says it is less abrasive than the way Angella says it. Like she doesn’t actually give a shit, like it’s just an amusing observation. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe,” I concede. I’m not exactly going to explain to her that I have a very good reason for being paranoid. The fewer people who know I’m the wanted fugitive known as Eternian Agent She-Ra, the better. </p><p> </p><p>“So what makes you so sure she’s still working for them?” Her question is gruff - everything about her is gruff, which I like - but I think I can detect some genuine concern buried in there. Like she absolutely<em> will </em>ban Catra from coming to the club if she turns out to be a Horde agent. It’s honestly a relief to finally encounter somebody who takes the threat seriously. </p><p> </p><p>“She was Covert Ops, before she left,” I say, keeping my voice low just in case Huntara’s assessment of Catra’s current ability to focus is wrong. “She’d have been sent alone on missions all the time, given plenty of opportunities to make a run for it. But she went back every time, completed her task and returned to the Horde. Infiltrating Etheria Station is a job completely suited to her. I don’t believe for a second that she actually defected.”</p><p> </p><p>“You knew her, from before,” Huntara says. It isn’t a question. </p><p> </p><p>“Briefly,” I say, taking a sip from my juice in the hopes that it’ll cool the heat I feel in my cheeks. I want to keep this matter-of-fact even though Huntara is leering at me knowingly. </p><p> </p><p>“But you’re not Covert Ops.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” I concede, frowning. “How can you tell?” </p><p> </p><p>“You march when you walk,” she says, with a shrug. “She doesn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“That simple, is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well. Not exactly, but that’s the easiest way I can think of to explain it.” She reaches over the bar and helps herself to a water, cracks it open without checking the seal. Perks of being the owner, I suppose. Endless non-alcoholic beverages. “I’ve known a few people who came from that track. Not a lot, but enough. Got fooled by one for a couple weeks, a decade ago, but I think I’ve gotten better at reading people since.” </p><p> </p><p>“What did you do?” I ask, watching Catra, watching her smile and sigh at the trailing touch of her partner, looking blissfully disconnected from reality. “When you found out.” </p><p> </p><p>“Turned her over to the Administrator, once I had proof,” Huntara says, after a long pause. “I was real tempted to push her out an airlock, though. Real, <em> real </em>damn tempted.” </p><p> </p><p>I nod, not sure what to say to that. </p><p> </p><p>Silence whispers around us, coming tight like ropes; supportive, restrictive, comfortable, taut. </p><p> </p><p>Across the room, Catra whimpers as she’s forced into a difficult position, stretched and posed and displayed like lush artwork, some divine sculpture of flesh and fur and fang. </p><p> </p><p>I remember the feeling of that body against my hands, and I bring the bottle of juice once more to my lips like I can drown the inferno of my incessant desire with a mouthful of sugar water and orangeberry extract.</p><p> </p><p>“For what it’s worth,” Huntara says, after a few more minutes of us both watching the scene with a ravenous, sinful reverence, “I think she’s sincere. She’s trying to fit in here, and putting down roots, learning new shit she can do with her life that isn’t just more murder and destruction. Like I said - I don’t put up with loyalists in my club. I’ve learned how to spot them, over the years. If I thought she were one, she wouldn’t be here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” I say, before I can stop myself, suddenly angry for some reason I don’t quite understand, “maybe you’ve gone soft.” I immediately regret the words and tense, preparing myself to stand and leave - I won’t blame her, honestly, if she tells me to get the fuck out of her club after a comment like that. Among soldiers, it’s as good as throwing a punch. </p><p> </p><p>But I guess she really isn’t a soldier anymore, hasn’t been for a long, long time, because she just makes a face at me like she’s frustrated, or - worse, much worse - <em> disappointed </em> by my flare of temper. </p><p> </p><p>“Easy,” she says, narrowing her eyes, and <em> ah - </em> my comment <em> did </em> hurt, <em> did </em> piss her off. It feels almost good, almost like a relief. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe I’ve missed the simplicity of the kind of interpersonal conflict you get in a barracks. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a moment of tension. I could make this worse. I could double-down. I think wistfully of the uncomplicated trouble of a good fistfight.</p><p> </p><p>But I like this club, I remind myself, and I like Huntara. What the fuck am I thinking, playing with the idea of starting a fight with her for absolutely no reason?</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” I grunt, eventually. “I don’t know why I said that.” </p><p> </p><p>Huntara waves it off, and all is forgiven. As if by agreement, we both turn our attention back to the scene. Catra is pulsing her hips, keening needily as her partner strokes her tail and whispers something to her. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s hard,” Huntara says, unprompted, “Letting your defenses down. You spend your whole life trying to project strength, to be as perfect as possible for a master who reminds you constantly that anything less than total conformity is proof that you’re defective, and then, what, now you’re free, and you can be anything you want? A lot of people - I mean, especially when it comes to <em> this </em> stuff,” she gestures with one broad hand at the club, “they feel guilty for wanting it. Broken. But when you let go of that, let yourself enjoy it without trying to, y’know, feel appropriately shitty about it afterwards, or whatever… it can help you learn to let down some of those defenses. Show you how good it feels to just be yourself with someone, and have them actually like that version of you, <em> want </em> that version of you.”</p><p> </p><p>I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the way the sugary juice has coated them, thinking about how nice it must be to live a life where all you have to worry about is learning to be emotionally vulnerable, or whatever it is she’s talking about.</p><p> </p><p>I can’t tell her that there’s more on the line here than me getting my heart broken. There are things worse than death waiting for me at the edges of the Whispering System.</p><p> </p><p>But what if she’s right? What if Catra isn’t actually here to bring me back to Shadow Weaver? What if she genuinely did defect? </p><p> </p><p><em> Making myself miserable for no reason </em>- that was how Bow put it. </p><p> </p><p>“I should just stay away from her,” I say out loud, like I’m hoping Huntara will agree with me and give me the strength I need to resist the magnetic pull of those eyes. “That’s the simplest solution.” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe,” Huntara says, and she’s back to sounding like she doesn’t give a shit. </p><p> </p><p>My stomach does something that feels a bit like I’m falling. I don’t like that answer.</p><p> </p><p>“But - ” she continues, and I look at her sharply, almost embarrassed by how eager I am for any justification I can use to continue my ill-advised encounters with Catra. “You should pick one and stick with it, because it isn’t fair to her if you keep changing your mind and jerking her around.” </p><p> </p><p>I frown. </p><p> </p><p>Huntara’s head turns as someone new enters the club, and a bright grin appears on her face as she recognizes the tall, muscular woman. </p><p> </p><p>“Anyways,” she says in conclusion, getting to her feet and patting my arm heavily, “Either you’ll figure it out, or you won’t. But honestly, blondie?” Her grin becomes a feral smirk. “I think you’d be a lot less tense if you’d just hurry up and fuck the damn girl already.” And then she leaves me there at the bar, eyes on her newest target and a saunter in her step. </p><p> </p><p>I return my attention to Catra; she’s being slowly freed from the rope now, sitting on the floor and leaning into the embrace of her partner, who is leaving kisses down her neck. I watch as a pleased, comfortable smile tugs at her lips. I feel, quite strongly, that I am intruding. Incongruously, I feel no shame whatsoever when I rake my gaze across her bare breasts and soaked underwear; enjoying the sweet delicacy of that soft smile, though, seems to cross some line.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes slide open. They flick up to her play partner, then roam the room. </p><p> </p><p>I quickly turn my back to her before she can see me looking. I order another juice from the bar even though I haven’t finished my first one. It’s a flimsy alibi, but it’s better than nothing.</p><p> </p><p>I don’t think I could bear it to be caught staring when she is so soft, so vulnerable, so gentle in somebody else’s hands. </p><p> </p><p>I busy myself checking the seal on the new bottle of juice, turning it in my hands to be sure it’s untampered with. I watch out of my peripherals as Catra and the cyborg woman leave the play area, walking past me to head up the stairs to the loft. I wait, drinking my first juice and then fiddling with my second one, not opening it yet. I don’t actually want it, and the thought of more of that sickly sweet stuff sloshing around in my stomach makes me feel woozy. </p><p> </p><p>I wish I had a glass of something stronger to blunt the growing anticipation I feel crawling up my back. </p><p> </p><p>Have I waited long enough? Is Catra alone yet? </p><p> </p><p>Will she want to do two scenes in one night, anyways? I’ve seen people do it, but… </p><p> </p><p>Maybe I should just try again some other night. </p><p> </p><p>I twist in my seat, watch as a new couple take up the station just occupied by Catra and her partner. The pair of portly, grinning men kiss and caress in between sharp strokes of a wicked looking rubber flogger. I watch just long enough to admire the thick collar one of them is wearing - glistening silver rings on stiff black leather, sturdy and eye catching - and then lose both my interest and my patience.</p><p> </p><p>I get up, awkwardly holding the unopened bottle of juice, and head up the stairs to the loft.</p><p> </p><p>Catra is there and my feet steer me automatically towards her as surely as if she’d called my name. She isn’t looking at me, though; her eyes are closed, and she’s curled up against the cyborg - Tallstar, Huntara called her - on one of the sofas. Tallstar’s got her arms around Catra, one hand in her hair, and I freeze, not wanting to interrupt them. </p><p> </p><p>This isn’t kink, I think, panic surging inside of me. This is so tender. Maybe they’re a couple? Maybe Catra got bored of waiting for me and now she’s found someone to - </p><p> </p><p>Catra’s ear twitches towards me, and her eyes come open. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey Adora,” she purrs. Her voice is husky, pleased, and a little weary. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck. I can’t just turn around and walk away now, or go to the railing and act like my plan was always just to watch the scenes happening on the floor below. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” I say, feeling stupid. My body roars with the enormity of how much I <em> want </em> her, struggles with the socially correct way to express this to her - if there <em> is </em> a correct way to express this to a person currently in the arms of somebody who was just topping them - even as my mind screams at me that I shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be pursuing her, shouldn’t be giving in to the temptation.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s fine. It’s fine as long as I keep her hands where I can see them and I don’t let her touch me.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Just gonna stand there?” She laughs, keeping her eyes on me even as she rubs her cheek against the underside of Tallstar’s jaw, one hand resting on a bionic thigh. “Come sit.”</p><p> </p><p>She says this last bit like I am absolutely, patently <em> absurd </em> for not already being there on the sofa beside her. I don’t know how to resist her. I flounder, struggling to remember <em> why </em> I’m trying to resist her. </p><p> </p><p>I cross towards them and plop down on the sofa next to theirs. Tallstar smiles at me; I think I smile back at her, but it’s possible it ends up looking more like a grimace. Catra’s gaze slips down to the bottle I’m holding. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em> juice,” </em> she murmurs. I can hear the simple want in her voice, undisguised, and I think maybe her desire for this stupid juice might be the most honest thing I’ve ever heard leave her lips. </p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t opened it yet,” I say, offering it across the distance. She raises her eyebrows at me, then after a moment she reaches out and takes it from me. </p><p> </p><p>I can’t help but notice that she checks, with a reflexive motion, to see if the seal is unbroken. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t know if that makes me more or less sure that she’s an undercover agent, but it feels strangely reassuring to know I’m not the only person who does it. </p><p> </p><p>“Here,” Tallstar says, misunderstanding Catra’s moment of hesitation and taking the bottle, opening it for her. Even though she’s perfectly capable of opening a fucking bottle of <em> juice. </em>I bristle, insulted on Catra’s behalf, but to my surprise this earns another lazy smile from Catra. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” she says, taking the bottle back with one hand and gently stroking Tallstar’s face with the other. She takes a swig; I watch her throat work, then look away and try to lean back into the sofa, try to pretend I have any idea how to relax. </p><p> </p><p>Am I supposed to say something? I came up here to ask Catra if she wanted to - </p><p> </p><p>Ugh, it feels so weak, so halting, to be <em> asking, </em> to - to be so flustered by the sight of her <em> cuddling.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“So when’d you get here?” Catra asks, sounding… friendly. Conversational. </p><p> </p><p>We haven’t done that. Haven’t been friendly. Casual. </p><p> </p><p>I tense even more - didn’t think that was possible, hah - and try to quickly assess if I should even allow this. It’s one thing to hook up and do scenes, another to let her chat casually with me. The more times I talk to her, the more chances I have to slip up and reveal something confidential.</p><p> </p><p>But I guess I have to be able to talk to her if I want to ask for more. </p><p> </p><p>Just enough, I think, I'll give her just enough to be able to get what I want - what I <em> need.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Twenty, thirty minutes ago, maybe,” I say, and curse myself for the way Catra’s attentive listening to this banal answer makes me feel good, makes me feel desirable, makes me wish I were the one holding her. </p><p> </p><p>“Thinking about playing tonight?” She asks, taking another sip of the juice and then offering it to Tallstar, who accepts with a quiet smile. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe,” I say, feeling my heart rate pick up. Should I just - just admit that she’s what I came here for? I might as well, right?</p><p> </p><p>But then she’ll know she has some sort of sway over me. </p><p> </p><p>(She must already know she has some sort of sway over me.)</p><p> </p><p>Fuck it. <em> Fuck it.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Are you done for the night?” I make myself ask. </p><p> </p><p>“Think so,” she says, and then, “Sorry.” She quirks a little smile. Fuck. She must have seen the disappointment on my face. </p><p> </p><p>I shrug. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I was going to come back tomorrow night, though,” she offers, and the apologetic smile becomes a grin. </p><p> </p><p>It feels good - dangerously good - to be on the receiving end of that grin. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, that’s lucky,” I lie, “I was planning on doing the exact same thing.” </p><p> </p><p>Her grin grows.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she huffs, “Lucky. I told a friend I’d help her break in a new toy first, but we can go after, if you want.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” I say, and my imagination floods with the vast possibility of the phrase <em> break in a new toy. </em> I don’t like the slightly possessive way my chest clenches at the thought of all these people who aren’t <em> me </em> getting to have Catra like this. </p><p> </p><p>I need to be careful not to let her get her claws into me. It’s okay to want her, to have her, as long as I never <em> trust </em> her. </p><p> </p><p>She accepts the juice back from Tallstar, and then takes a long sip of it, regarding me with her intelligent, sharp eyes the entire time. I hold her stare.</p><p> </p><p><em> I know what you are, </em> I try to make my face say, <em> and you aren’t fooling me.  </em></p><p> </p><p>She finishes swallowing, licks the remnants from her lips with a slow, soft movement of her tongue that makes my pulse pick up and my groin throb. The corner of her mouth pulls up, smug, knowing. </p><p> </p><p><em> You know what I am, </em> that smirk whispers, <em> but you want me anyways.  </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>I arrive early the next night, too eager to be embarrassed by my lack of restraint. </p><p> </p><p>At first I think Catra isn’t there yet - there are a few couples doing scenes already, but none of the bottoms are Feleuri. I head for the loft, thinking I’ll snag a comfortable spot with a good view of the door before the club starts to fill up, and then as I pass, I see her.</p><p> </p><p>She’s dressed in leather from shoulder to ankle, hair slicked back, a whip balanced in one hand. She laughs, and the sound fills my body with icy dread. </p><p> </p><p>“You think you can take more?” Catra says, stroking the whip along the marked-up back of her play partner, some Torstosian I don’t recognize. The stranger’s shirt is off, so I can see clearly that there’s no Horde brand on her body. Catra chuckles darkly, reacting to something I can’t hear. “Oh yeah? We’ll see.” She backs away, putting more distance between them, and then the whip <em> CRACKS.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The woman cuffed up to the St. Andrew’s cross screams, jerks violently, gores empty air with a thrash of her broad, curved horns. There’s a new mark cutting across her back, already vivid red against calm vermillion skin. </p><p> </p><p>I notice Huntara watching attentively from the bar; her body language says Business Mode. She’ll be watching to make sure nobody inattentively gets into range of the whip in the cramped quarters of the club, watching to make sure the intense play never crosses past what the Torstosian can apparently take.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't need to worry.</p><p> </p><p>I can tell from the way Catra handles the whip, handles herself, that she knows what she’s doing. </p><p> </p><p>And it fucking terrifies me. </p><p> </p><p>Catra seems completely focused on her scene; she moves with predatory fluidity, strikes with total accuracy and complete control - impressive, with an unwieldy toy like a bullwhip. </p><p> </p><p>I’d somehow managed to forget that Catra isn’t an exclusive bottom any more than I’m an exclusive top. </p><p> </p><p>My mouth fills with saliva - not like I’m hungry. Like I’m about to vomit. I think I taste the coppery twinge of blood. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, is that right?” Catra cackles, when her partner bellows. “You’re so <em> noisy. </em> I don’t think anybody complains as much as you do while they’re being treated so <em> nicely.” </em>She goes up to the bound woman again, runs her hands down the striped expanse of her back. “That good, hm? Yeah... you held out for a while, but I don’t think you can take any more, can you?”</p><p> </p><p>My legs feel weak beneath me. How many times has she taken this tone of voice with someone who <em> wasn’t </em> in her grasp consensually? Did she ever handle the torture herself, or was she content to turn people over to Shadow Weaver’s infamous clutches and wash her hands of it? </p><p> </p><p>And who am I to judge? <em> Me, </em>the person who - </p><p> </p><p>I can’t do this. I can’t - I can’t do this. </p><p> </p><p>I turn to leave, hoping she’ll be too absorbed in her scene to notice me. </p><p> </p><p>But the entrance is packed; a group of four people all arriving together are clutching a fifth person in excited hugs, blocking my escape. </p><p> </p><p>Panic screams through me. </p><p> </p><p>Fire exit behind the bar.</p><p> </p><p>It’ll set off the alarm. </p><p> </p><p>I start towards it anyways.</p><p> </p><p>“Blondie,” I hear Huntara say questioningly, and then when I don’t stop, “Adora.” </p><p> </p><p>I ignore her, tense my core in preparation for hopping the bar. </p><p> </p><p>Her arms come around me and steer me <em> firmly </em> away, back towards the steps of the loft. I struggle reflexively.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she says, low and calm and sturdy, “It’s just me. Easy.” She pushes me down onto a step, and I sit obediently. “Breathe.” </p><p> </p><p>I don’t want to breathe - I don’t want to <em> sit. </em> I want to <em> run.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Talk to me,” she says; the command in her voice is comforting. </p><p> </p><p>“I need to leave,” I tell her. </p><p> </p><p>She looks over at the normal entrance, glowers at the people currently blocking it.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck’s sakes,” she mutters, “Do I need to put up <em>another </em>sign about not clustering in there?” Then her attention pulls back to me. “You’re alright, blondie, you’re fine, okay? You can leave if you need to, I’ll get those stupid fucksticks out of there. In the meantime, I want you to think about five things you can see, and five things you can hear, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>I nod. As soon as she’s not crowding me, keeping me sitting on this step, I have every intention of leaving through the fire door. </p><p> </p><p>But then when she leaves me there and starts marching towards the entrance to tell off the people who are blocking my escape route, I reason that Catra will definitely notice if I set off the fire alarm, so it makes more sense to just sit and wait for Huntara to clear the path for me. </p><p> </p><p>And since I’m sitting here waiting, my mind idly grasps at her suggestion. Five things I can see, five things I can hear?</p><p> </p><p>I try to root myself back in my body, try to pay attention to the room. </p><p> </p><p>I hear Huntara’s voice snarling at the people in the entrance. I hear someone upstairs on the loft whimpering in pleasure on one of the sofas. I hear the smack of a paddle. I hear somebody at the bar telling a story about a concession stand and a haywire ‘hotdog launcher’, whatever that is. I hear the people he’s talking to laugh.</p><p> </p><p>Huh. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t hear the whip anymore. </p><p> </p><p>I feel my breathing slowly start to steady. Okay. What were the other things? Five - five things I can see. </p><p> </p><p>I look down. I can see my own knuckles, bloodless as I clench the metal step beneath me. Huh. One by one, I release my fingers from the edge of the step. </p><p> </p><p>I look up. I can see the group in the entrance dispersing apologetically, moving into the club proper. I can see Huntara watching me from across the room. </p><p> </p><p>I look right. I can see the hotdog launcher storyteller grinning, can see the way he’s got his arm wrapped around the reedy Capriform next to him. </p><p> </p><p>I look left. </p><p> </p><p>I can see Catra gently taking her friend down from the cross, kissing the back of her thick neck, touching her carefully and soothingly. I can see the huge woman smiling, in a daze, and leaning into Catra. </p><p> </p><p>I watch as Catra massages her wrists, leads her to the bar to get a water. </p><p> </p><p>I stand and move out of their way as Catra goes past with her friend, headed up to the loft. She flashes me a little smile, then continues guiding the gigantic woman up the stairs, intent on getting her onto a sofa. </p><p> </p><p>“Feeling a little more stable?” Huntara asks, appearing at my side. </p><p> </p><p>I notice that she doesn’t touch me. It’s like she knows I’d have jumped if she did.</p><p> </p><p>I have to swallow and clear my throat before I can answer her.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve done that before,” I say, “talked someone down from panic.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “It’s something you learn to do when you spend a lot of time around Hordies. We aren’t exactly the most stable bunch.”</p><p> </p><p>Bow said it was <em> Huntara’s </em>idea that they should get therapy when they came to the station. </p><p> </p><p>I take a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” I say, tossing the word at her sullenly, embarrassed by my own behaviour. </p><p> </p><p>“You good?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m good.” </p><p> </p><p>“Alright. Door’s clear. I’ll be around.” I nod. Now would be a good time to leave, probably, but now that the initial shock has passed, I think - I think I’m okay. </p><p> </p><p>I take another deep breath, and then I jog up the steps to the loft.</p><p> </p><p>Several of the sofas are occupied; I spot where Catra is sitting with the big Torstosian and watch her stroking the woman’s mane of dark hair for a moment before I turn my back to them and go to lean on a railing, gazing down at the first floor, letting my breathing slow. </p><p> </p><p>I shouldn’t be surprised that Catra’s a switch. She was definitively in charge of everything that happened between us when we were nineteen and fucking in closets - a fact that had been a turn-on, at the time. </p><p> </p><p>I close my eyes, remembering. </p><p> </p><p>Remembering the whispered, urgent commands, the thrill of obeying them. </p><p> </p><p>She’s held perfectly to the rules I established. She hasn’t tried to touch me, hasn’t tried to kiss me. She can’t hurt me, can’t manipulate me, if I don’t <em> let </em> her. </p><p> </p><p>And for all that she’s clearly capable of control, mastery, gleeful wickedness, she gave herself to <em> me. </em>She let me hold all the strings, no complaints, no questions asked. </p><p> </p><p>I turn back around, let my gaze find her the way it always wants to. </p><p> </p><p>Catra and her friend are chatting happily; she’s got that massive horned head in her lap somehow, and both seem alert, cheerful, calm.</p><p> </p><p>Do I still want her? </p><p> </p><p>She looks up. </p><p> </p><p>She raises an eyebrow, asking a question. </p><p> </p><p>I do. I do still want her. </p><p> </p><p>I answer her question: I raise my eyebrows right back at her and then, after a beat, I smirk. </p><p> </p><p>She bites her lower lip playfully, flirting from across the room. </p><p> </p><p>The heat within me, doused momentarily by fear, warms to life once more. </p><p> </p><p>Just a little more, it urges, I just want to hurt her a little more, want to make her squirm again one last time.</p><p> </p><p>One more gasp.</p><p> </p><p>One more whimper. </p><p> </p><p>One more shuddering <em> yes </em>that’s just for me. </p><p> </p><p>I know I’m lying to myself.</p><p> </p><p>I know <em> just one more </em> will never be enough. </p><p> </p><p>Catra murmurs something to the friend, who grins up at her and then sits up straight. Catra hands her the whip - <em> really fun</em>, I hear her say - and then rises from the sofa and comes over to join me at the railing. </p><p> </p><p>“Still want to play tonight?” Catra asks. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” I say, turning to look down at the view of the first floor. My intention was to avoid the scrutiny of her eyes, but I realize too late that I’ve just turned my back to her. The vulnerability sits uncomfortably in my stomach until she comes to stand beside me, putting us on even footing. “Same rules as last time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she says, and I can hear in her voice that there’s something more she wants to say. I brace myself for whatever it is. She’s going to push the boundaries, now that she knows she’s got me hooked. Ask for a little more. Wear down my defenses. Catra sends me a sideways glance, snorts. “Relax, your rules are fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to tactfully ask you if you have any idea what safewords or aftercare are.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” I say, and then, knowing I can’t get away with quickly consulting my wrist implant for a rapid keyword search, “No, not really.” I’ve got at least some vague notion of what aftercare is, and I understand that people <em> do </em> it, but the other term is unfamiliar. Catra laughs, shakes her head, leans against the steel cable railing barrier. </p><p> </p><p>“I had a feeling, sort of, but you sure made it fucking hard to tell that you’ve never done this before.” She grins wryly. “You don’t <em> hit </em> like someone who’s never done it before.” </p><p> </p><p>My heart rate picks up again. I’m glad that all the context clues will suggest to her it’s because of what we’re about to do, or because she’s complimenting me, and not because she’s just brushed up against something the Eternians intended me to die to keep secret. </p><p> </p><p>“So are you going to tell me what those things are, or were you just gonna rub it in my face that I’m new at this?” I say, forcing myself to grin back at her, like this is just so much banter. She snorts, but her expression rests somewhere fondly exasperated. </p><p> </p><p>“I probably should have brought it up last time, but you, uh. Came on pretty strong. I wasn’t thinking too hard in the moment.” Is she <em> blushing </em> as she admits this? Is it possible to learn to fake blushing? Am I just imagining it to begin with? “But a safeword is a word you use that basically means you need to stop, right away, no matter what. Mine is <em> red. </em>So if you hear me say ‘red’, that means you have to stop, and check in to see if I’m okay. Does that make sense?”</p><p> </p><p>I nod, chewing over this information. So she’s not asking for fewer rules. She’s adding one of her own. I can’t see how that might be a problem - at least, not without a little creativity. </p><p> </p><p>And, now that I think about it, it makes sense that this is the first time I’m hearing about the concept. You don’t really need a safeword if you’re just a simulation. I imagine the same is true of aftercare - I can already make a rough guess at what that is, if not what it specifically is supposed to entail. </p><p> </p><p>“Stop if you say ‘red’, got it. I’ve heard of aftercare I think, from reading the online chat logs about this club.” I let the sentence hang awkwardly, to make it clear that if pressed, I absolutely could not use the word in a sentence. </p><p> </p><p>“Aftercare is - well, I mean, it’s what you saw me doing just now with Isphae. Yesterday, too, with Tallstar.” I frown, not quite comprehending. That was just… cuddling. Intimacy. I don’t see why there’s a special word for it.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re asking me to do that?” I ask, uncertain. My mind clacks loudly and rapidly, trying to process how exactly I can give her what she’s asking for in a way that doesn’t put my own safety at risk. Maybe if we’re in the club, in public, it’s fine. Huntara would be here, too, keeping watch for anything suspicious. I’ve at least alerted her to my fears about Catra.</p><p> </p><p>Catra gives me a <em> look. </em>I’m not entirely sure why, but it makes me feel like an asshole. </p><p> </p><p>“You still really think I’m working for them, huh?” She says, quietly, bitterly. </p><p> </p><p>I say nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Catra sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” she says, and I grit my jaw against the impulse to plead with her to take that back. If she’s playing me, she’s playing me all too well. Fuck. Fucking fuck. </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, I manage to not say anything still. I wait. </p><p> </p><p>Catra watches the scenes happening below us, and then sighs again, loud and frustrated and desolate. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know why I can’t fucking seem to resist you,” she mutters, then rubs her face. “You’re such an idiot. <em> Yes, </em>I want you to provide aftercare. You can keep my wrists bound while you do it, if it’s so important to you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I say quickly. “I can do that.” She sends another glance my way, rolls her eyes, and then smiles. </p><p> </p><p>“Alright. Come on then, I brought my cuffs with me. Something told me I’d want them.” She pushes off the railing, starts towards the stairs, then turns and looks at me. Her face softens. “You ready?” </p><p> </p><p>I swallow, feeling myself come undone just another notch by her open expression. </p><p> </p><p>I follow her down.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I run my fingers down the length of a two foot long delrin rod switch hanging from the loaner wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I use this one tonight?” I murmur hungrily, knowing Catra can hear me just fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I say, because I do. I falter, then add, “I’ve done research.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Catra says, and I look over at her where she’s rummaging around in a cubby, retrieving her set of leather wrist cuffs and a metal clip to attach them to each other. “Meaty parts of the body only,” she clarifies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take it down off the wall, give it a test hit against my arm. It stings - doesn’t take much strength at all to make it hurt. Light. Whippy. Fun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before I can stop myself, I’m grinning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra rolls her eyes at my expression, but then smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I assume you want these off,” she says, gesturing at her leather pants and leather vest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do,” I say, feeling heat flicker around my words. I know she hears it too, because she sucks her lower lip into her mouth and bites it, huffs a tiny exhale through her nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s not faking it, I don’t think. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then, the most convincing lies always contain some kernel of truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I twirl the switch in my fingers thoughtfully, watching as she unzips her vest and shrugs out of it; she’s got nothing on underneath it, and a fresh wave of greedy, covetous desire rises up in me at the ease with which she exposes herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An idea - an urge - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>need - </span>
  </em>
  <span>hums to life, racing across my skin, filling my lungs as I inhale. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I hit your breasts with this?” I ask, and she freezes partway through pushing her pants down, looking up at me with pupils I could swear are wider than normal. She swallows, shudders, then resumes taking her pants off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, and her voice is like a plume of smoke, thick - almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>opaque</span>
  </em>
  <span> - with raw arousal, with delicious, undisguised fear. “Lightly. They’re sensitive - it doesn’t take much. I uh.” She has to clear her throat, and her halting uncertainty lures me in, feeds the rising </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> inside of me that is so delighted to be feared, unmistakably turned on by the very notion. “I would - I would hit other parts of me, too. I won’t be able to take much of just that.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your thighs,” I growl, without looking down at them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breathing gets harder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, already seeming pleasantly dazed, “That - that’ll work.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” I say, curling my tongue around the letters of the word with the silky violence I wish I had curled around one of those perfect fucking nipples instead. She exhales again and I see her throat move, know I almost made her whimper without ever touching her, decide that’s something I now </span>
  <em>
    <span>aspire</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later. I need her under my hands, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want to use that station today,” I say, pointing the switch at the black leather exam table and its deeply appealing setup of heel stirrups and separate, adjustable leg supports. I feel like I must be trembling, I want her so damn badly, but I look at my outstretched wrist and it doesn’t so much as waver.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds good,” Catra says - the edge of nerves in her voice is… decadent. Delectable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So what if I’m feeling a little cocky about the fact that I’ve played the top in all of one scene with her and she’s acting like she’s terrified of - and wildly excited by - what I’m capable of?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn the switch towards her, stroke its thin tip down her hip bone through her underpants - boyshorts again, but black tonight - and then point it towards the exam table imperiously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>shudders, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the reaction burns beautifully all the way down my throat as I swallow it with abandon, rich and vivid and forbidden.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We cross together to the exam table, and I walk a few feet behind her, touching her ass and thighs lightly with the switch the entire way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We haven’t even started yet and my groin is already pulsing, demanding attention. I grin, thinking about how hard I’m going to come tonight back in my quarters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra hops up into the chair-table hybrid - I lean in, our faces close, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>push </span>
  </em>
  <span>her the rest of the way in, my palm rough against her hip. She gasps; I smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold her eyes from a few inches away, feel, briefly, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one with the fangs. Her breath brushes against my face; I can feel her body’s heat from this distance. My fascination with her throbs through my body like the bass line to a song, underscoring my every movement, my every glance, my every thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has such a beautiful neck. I want to hold her by it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some other night, maybe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I roll the switch around in my palm, regard her. She’s clutching the pair of cuffs, but I’ll need both of my hands to actually put them on her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I raise the switch to her face, press it to her lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold this,” I say. She whimpers; her lips part; the thin rod falls between her teeth, held neatly. I feel a twitch between my thighs, a bodily response to her gaudy obedience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I just want to make her scream. I want to make her come. I want to make her lose herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to make her forget that anything ever existed but me, my touch, my voice, my desire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take the cuffs from her fingers; she yields them gently, allows me to buckle them around her wrists. I’m wary of her claws - I always am - but she keeps her hands relaxed and offers no resistance as I clip each cuff to a point on the table near her waist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She already looks so good, so helpless, so vulnerable. This exam table doesn’t leave much to the imagination. If she didn’t have underwear on…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that’s not part of my plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s safe to tie her down and hit her, so that’s all I’m going to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>all. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I walk around her, travelling from her head to her ankles, raised up in the air, set so nicely into the stirrups. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve been coming to the club long enough, watched enough scenes, that I know how to work the leg supports. I watch the fluttering rise and fall of her breath - watch her watching me back - as I put myself between her raised knees, touch the controls embedded into the chair just below where her ass is resting, and spread them </span>
  <em>
    <span>wider. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She throws her head back and whimpers as the chair whirs and the stirrups pull her feet further apart, grant me more access. I draw my knuckles up her inner thigh, one long, sumptuous line from her groin to her knee, and enjoy the way this makes her jerk suddenly, lifting her hips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I raise an eyebrow at her, pause.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The leg supports on this exam table come with ankle restraints.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay if I do these up too?” I ask, sliding my hand from her knee down her shin, stopping to rest at her ankle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whimpers again around the switch, and then nods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I buckle her in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now she’s mine. Powerless. Helpless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And - </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I discover, from the incredible view I have standing between her knees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I need to start hurting her now, or I’m going to start thinking about fucking her instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or in addition to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My eyes rove across her body, across her face, and before I can stop myself my imagination is conjuring the image of our bodies pressed together, skin on fur, limbs tangled hot and needy, my core burning with exertion as I pulse inside of her, pin her down, bring her closer to climax with thrust after violent thrust as she bites into my shoulder, rakes her claws into my lower back -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. That’s out of the question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m aching with how much I want it, but there are ways to soothe those aches. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I run my hands up and down her thighs, anchoring myself in the feel of her soft, wonderful fur. Then I pull back, walk back around her to retrieve the switch from her mouth. She looks up at me, expression hazy, willing, excited. Her lower lip glistens, glazed with a touch of her own saliva from holding the toy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I trace the very tip of the switch from the underside of her chin, down along her jugular, to her collar bones. Her toes flex and her eyelids clamp shut in anticipation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All of her is beautiful, of course, but there’s no denying the way her breasts demand my attention. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(They’re perfect. Any moment I’m not touching them is a moment I am unfulfilled, somehow.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I run the switch across her nipples one after the other, and she whines and lifts her chest up to meet the fleeting brush. I put my free hand on her stomach and gently press her back down onto the padded table. She’s panting already. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to take my time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I move the switch again with a quick motion, all wrist, flicking one pert, pretty nipple. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whimpers; I feel her hips twitch under my left palm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lift the toy up, two, maybe two and a half inches from her chest, and then let it drop back down in an experimental little tap. Her breath catches. I do it again, but her reaction is hardly there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That means I can do more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I put a little bit of force into my next strike, hitting the soft flesh of her left breast with more than just gravity, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>groans. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hit the other one, and she reacts just as strongly, jaw falling slack and mouth open, soft, noisy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>careful, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because she told me to keep it light. I tap, I flick, I tease, trying different angles. Her noises never get loud, exactly, but they’re loose and needy and unhinged in a way I find myself thoroughly enjoying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes some significant self-control to move down to her thighs, but as much as I’m enjoying myself, I want to be able to hit </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I drag my fingernails up the thick, powerful muscle of her legs. I can see the damp spot in her underwear has gotten bigger; I want to press my mouth and nose against that soaked fabric and take a long, deep hit of the smell of her - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just</span>
  </em>
  <span> violence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just</span>
  </em>
  <span> pain. I can excuse those things. I can justify wanting to inflict them on my enemy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at her, unravelling under my touch, splayed wide, surrendering to me completely, and I start to doubt that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> my enemy at all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve lingered too long, I realize, when her eyes come open again, regard me with heady longing and distant uncertainty at the fact that I’ve stopped. I force a smirk onto my face, line up the switch against her inner thigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just how much do you think you can take?” I purr. I don’t expect a reply - don’t give her the opportunity to formulate one before I lay my first strike down. I start easy, slow, light, and she gives a tiny, needy whimper with each one. Then I put a little more </span>
  <em>
    <span>whip</span>
  </em>
  <span> into the flick of my wrist, and her whimpers become gasps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just how much can she take?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just how much can </span>
  <em>
    <span>I? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hit </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her cries catch in her chest, strangled, urgent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grab hold of her knee, as if she isn’t already bound inexorably in place, keep her pinned as I lash three hard hits in quick succession, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hurt her. The sounds she makes - they </span>
  <em>
    <span>pierce </span>
  </em>
  <span>me, they send my insides </span>
  <em>
    <span>roaring. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shakes beneath me, so I don’t demand more from the part of her body that has already endured so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn to the other thigh, and draw the switch up and down and up and down, over and over until she’s pulsing her hips in time with it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging</span>
  </em>
  <span> with her body for me to just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hit her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, chuckling, I do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her groans are guttural as I pattern her with nonstop strikes that start light and get progressively sharper; I don’t stop, don’t give her time to process between them, until her cries have crescendoed past </span>
  <em>
    <span>startled</span>
  </em>
  <span> and into the creeping edge of </span>
  <em>
    <span>agony, </span>
  </em>
  <span>mingling with the CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! of the flying switch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then I stop, I apply my palm and fingers, and I rub the worst of the sting away again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up at her face; her brows are pressed together, but her mouth is slack, lips parted. I can see the beginnings of tears at the corners of her eyes. She’s… stunning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I move back up to the head of the table; after a moment’s hesitation, I cautiously grasp one breast, kneading, massaging, warming, preparing, teasing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels so, so good in my grip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each panting whimper now slips from her mouth already slick with need; her keening is vulgar, sexual, and as good as a hand down my pants for how fucking horny I am. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I slide my hand over to the other one, touch her the same way, lose myself momentarily in the hedonistic glory of just </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching</span>
  </em>
  <span> her. I draw it out as long as I can, and then I bring the switch once more to her chest, now thoroughly warmed up for the second round. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More familiar now with what she can handle, I hit with confidence - just hard enough to make her gasp, to send flesh shuddering and flinching in reaction with each short, controlled swing. After the first few she begins to </span>
  <em>
    <span>writhe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>tugging against her restraints, arching her back, eyes tightly shut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I back off a little on the intensity - I don’t like the idea of making her use her safeword - and realize she must already be quite sensitive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull the switch away from her body, tuck it at my side. I want to push her harder, take her further, but something is telling me to stop now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Don’t ruin a good thing by getting too carried away, I tell myself idly. My body is thrumming - I feel good, I feel satisfied, I feel excited about it all. It’s enough for tonight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And besides - there’s aftercare to consider, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m going to have to get Huntara to explain in more concrete terms how it works and what it’s for, but I get the general idea of it, I think. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I go to Catra’s ankles first, unbuckle the restraints that are built into the table. Then I unclip her wrist cuffs from the table, and leave them temporarily unattached to anything, so that she can pull herself up to sitting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she doesn’t immediately sit up, I frown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You good?” I ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” she groans, “Yeah. Give me… give me a second.” Her eyes are shut, her breath still coming heavily. I stand awkwardly beside her, feeling like I ought to do something, not knowing what it is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a </span>
  <em>
    <span>few</span>
  </em>
  <span> seconds, Catra’s eyes come open in an expression of lazy pleasure, and she heaves a sigh and pushes herself up to sit up, drawing her feet up out of the stirrups and turning to sit with her legs over the side. She holds out a hand to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Help me up?” She asks, and I don’t hesitate for a moment, just take her hand in mine and allow her to put her weight on me as she rises up to her feet, wobbly and drained. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel patently stupid for thinking she could be a threat to me like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright?” I ask, holding her elbow, supporting her. She nods, takes a deep breath, then stands a little straighter. “Was that okay?” is my follow-up question. I’m starting to get worried I went too far. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was fucking fantastic,” Catra laughs shakily, blowing out a breath. “Now you better take me upstairs and snuggle me, after a scene like that.” I feel my face getting hot, but it’s easy enough to focus on the specific steps I need to take: step one, quickly disinfect and return the switch. Step two, buy a water from the bar. (I remember seeing Catra doing that for the big woman she just topped, and I remember her enthusiasm for the juice.) Step three, get Catra upstairs - which isn’t that hard, since she seems perfectly capable of walking, if a little happily bleary, by the time I’ve completed steps one and two.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Step four: locate empty sofa.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Step five: sit on the sofa.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Step six -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Step six - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Were you always this awkward?” Catra whispers laughingly as she offers me her wrists. “Here. If it’ll make you relax a little more.” I let out a breath, clip the cuffs together in front of her. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> make me relax a little more. “Okay, now sit sideways on the couch. Just like that. Okay. I’m gonna sit between your legs and lean against your chest. Is that okay?” I nod. Why is my heart racing so damn much? Why does it feel like I’m treading water in an ocean I know is populated by something big and bloodthirsty? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra climbs onto the sofa with me, between my legs, and then nestles her back against my chest. She wriggles in close, looking comfortable even with her wrists cuffed together in front of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s warm against me, warm and solid and good and - and it feels so nice just to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have her pressed into my body like she needs me, like this </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant </span>
  </em>
  <span>something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I show her the bottle of water, give her the opportunity to see for herself that the seal is unbroken, and then I crack it open for her before handing it over, like Tallstar did. This makes her smile, and something inside of me that feels like a beam of light unfurls slowly and earnestly in reaction to that smile. She drinks a mouthful, then offers it to me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hesitate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The odds are pretty slim she’s had a drug of some kind hidden in her mouth, deployed into the water when she took her first sip, but - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m good, thanks,” I say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can buy another water on my way out if I really decide I want one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She twists the cap back on, puts it down on the floor next to the sofa, and then sighs and melts into me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you want my arms around you?” I ask stiffly. She huffs a little laugh - </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re unbelievable, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that laugh says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she tells me, “and touch my hair, and talk to me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My mouth feels dry. I suddenly really want that water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The problem isn’t that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to hold her, to cradle her in my arms and whisper to her and run my fingers through her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The problem is that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So, so badly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wrap one arm around her waist, pulling her closer. I drape the other across her sternum, curling my arm to rest my elbow on her shoulder and weave my fingers up into her short, thick hair. She makes a soft sound of approval, and I see her eyes drift shut, a dreamy smile on her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch her, feel her breathing against me, making my arm rise and fall with each movement of her chest. Her tail is lightly coiled around my hip, her cheek pressed to my shoulder. She seems so fragile. I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to protect her, to soothe her, to take ownership of the pain I’ve inflicted and equal it in quiet reassurances. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Belatedly, I remember she asked me to talk to her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Huntara thinks she’s not a Horde agent? Well, maybe this is the perfect opportunity for me to interrogate her while her guard is down, see if I can get her to slip up or reveal something that would serve as proof one way or another. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” I start, “How long have you been working at that hotel?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t work there anymore,” Catra murmurs into my chest. “I got fired after they found me zipcuffed in a guest’s room,” she says pointedly, without opening her eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I’m pretty sure it’s because my shirt was pushed up and the cleaning staff caught sight of my brand and reported it to the manager. It’s technically not legal on this station to fire someone for being ex-Horde, so they made up some bullshit about how I’d displayed bad judgement by getting myself into that situation and fired me for that instead.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” I mutter, and then, “Sorry.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine. It was a shitty job anyways. Plus Capriforms have a… a really potent smell.” She wrinkles her nose, like this is an extremely polite way of phrasing her complaint. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you get another one? Another job, I mean.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, and she’s smiling again. “I had a couple more shitty kitchen jobs after that one but then Huntara hooked me up with a friend of hers who runs a tattoo shop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a tattoo artist?” I ask, skeptically. She opens her eyes a crack and grins at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, like that’s so impossible? I mean - I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> - not yet, at least. I’m just an apprentice right now. I’m not getting near anybody’s skin for probably like another year. Perfuma’s got me inking shapes on fruits right now. But one day I’ll be a tattoo artist.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take that name </span>
  <em>
    <span>- Perfuma - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and mentally tuck it away to follow up on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So what about you?” Catra asks, and I tense. “Am I allowed to ask questions about your life now? Or is that not allowed?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s too much about my life that’s classified, even now. If she’s in a position to slip up and reveal secrets in this quiet moment of comfort, I’m just as vulnerable as she is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say. “Don’t ask me questions. You know I can’t answer them.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She closes her eyes again with a frustrated little scoff. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because you think I’m an undercover agent. What exactly do I have to do to prove to you that I’m not?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m quiet for a bit; my hand in her hair has stilled. To my surprise, she butts my palm with her head, and, startled, I reflexively resume scratching my fingertips against her scalp. I feel her body become slightly more pliant against mine, hear her give a quiet little sigh of pleasure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Answer more questions?” I suggest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs, but smiles, eyes still closed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says, “what do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What made you decide to defect?” I ask. She snorts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Starting with the easy ones, I see,” she says sarcastically, opening her eyes again. Her expression becomes thoughtful. “It was Krytis. I’m probably not special, I know a lot of us collectively kind of said ‘fuck it’ after that happened. When you find out the Eternians can snuff out fifty thousand soldiers in the wink of an eye on a whim, it doesn’t seem like a really smart idea to stay on the side that’s fucking with them.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Horror floods my body; I feel the panic from earlier fighting to make a reappearance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that how many it was?” I whisper. “Fifty thousand?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fifty thousand of </span>
  <em>
    <span>us.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Catra says. “I don’t know what the population of Krytis was before the weapon went off. Probably a couple million.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stifle a sob of anger, of pain, of guilt. I seize it in my mouth and force it back down my throat, let it stew, poisonous, in my stomach instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>New question. New question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you weren’t anywhere near it when it happened?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Obviously not,” she snorts. “The Black Garnet was in T Quadrant at the time. Prime heard there was a rebellion in the works on one of the manufacturing planets, wanted Shadow Weaver to send someone to get in there and find out who the ringleader was, make a plan to shut it down without impacting production efficiency. Anyways, we were on our way there when we got the word about Krytis. Baron Hordak had us turn right around and prioritize finding out what the fuck had happened, how the hell the Eternians had done it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m fighting, now, to keep my breathing even. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>how they did it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Catra knows that too, if she was part of the post-mortem investigation. Sure, she doesn’t know the details, maybe doesn’t know the exact specifics of </span>
  <em>
    <span>how. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she knows I was a key part of those millions of deaths. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And here she is, curled up against me, leaving herself vulnerable and keeping her wrists bound just to make me more comfortable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I blink hard, fighting down tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>New question. I need a </span>
  <em>
    <span>new</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you get out?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shrugs against me. Either she doesn't notice that talking about Krytis is winding me up, or she’s doing the polite thing among Horde soldiers and pretending not to notice the display of weakness, of emotions. She’s too astute not to have noticed, so it has to be the second one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I stole a skiff, left a bomb in the Black Garnet’s cargo hold as a distraction, and made a run for the Whispering System. So many people were deserting all at once, they didn’t have the resources to track us all individually - and since I’m smarter than your average meathead shock troop, I managed to slip through the cordon they put out that caught the majority of them. Honestly, the worst part about it was that I ran out of food about a week before I got to the station.” Momentarily distracted from my own internal torment by this thought, I shudder. I can’t imagine trying to pilot a two-man skiff through the Whispering System’s maze of ancient magnet mines while trying to think past the fog of slow starvation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So what’s your plan now? Spend the rest of your life stuck on a space station in the middle of nowhere, drawing stuff on people for money and going to sex clubs?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Does that really sound so awful?” She counters. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t have a plan. I’m just… surviving. But it feels good to…” She pauses thoughtfully, tilting her head into my touch, nuzzling against it. “I guess it feels good just to do something because I think it’s interesting? Instead of doing it because… because I’m good at it, and it’s useful to Shadow Weaver.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I roll this idea around in my mind for a while, stroking her hair steadily. After a bit, another question bubbles up to the top of my mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is she as bad as everybody says she is?” I’ve never worked with Shadow Weaver directly, other than that brief exposure doing our joint training program. I remember her as being lofty and mysterious and melodramatic, but there are… </span>
  <em>
    <span>stories</span>
  </em>
  <span> about her, among Baron Hordak’s troops. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra tenses a little in my arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says. “She’s worse.” Her shoulders clench, she repositions awkwardly without her hands free to support her weight, and then says, “I don’t want to talk about her.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think I’m out of questions for now anyways.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We sit in silence for a moment, and then I sigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here,” I murmur, unwrapping my arms from around her, reaching forward and unclipping the wrist cuffs from each other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m being stupid. She’s not going to do anything, not here, not like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m still not </span>
  <em>
    <span>convinced</span>
  </em>
  <span> - I still need to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>careful. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the way she looks up at me in soft surprise, then smiles and settles back against me…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A rumble starts up in her chest - </span>
  <em>
    <span>purring, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I think I remember this unique Feleuri vocalization is called, although I’ve never heard it before - and I feel the pleasant vibration of it softening the tightness in my shoulders and the tension in my jaw. It occurs to me that she’s the first person I’ve ever actually talked to about Krytis - well, if you can call this </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking about it - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it feels significant, somehow, that I was even </span>
  <em>
    <span>able</span>
  </em>
  <span> to without having a complete breakdown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The purring seems to be endless, and bit by bit I feel stress leaving my body, replaced by a comforting awareness of her body against mine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I enfold her in my arms, and I wonder how long I can stay sane, walking this tightrope.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So,” Catra says, smirking as she leans up against a locker, “how are we doing this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Five weeks. It’s only taken five weeks for my resolve to crumble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We arrange to meet at Salineas; The Crimson Wastes aren’t explicitly no-sex-allowed, but it’s sort of frowned on. It’s a kink club first and foremost, emphasis on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>kink,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and people don’t like when you hog the specialty equipment to do something that could easily be done in a bunk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or, as it were, in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sex</span>
  </em>
  <span> club. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is how I’m justifying it to myself: if we’re out in public, in a crowd of witnesses, there isn’t a whole lot she can do to me. The real danger is letting myself be alone with her, letting her have access to anything I eat or drink, or letting myself be unconscious around her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Plus if she’s naked, there isn’t really anywhere she can hide a hypo from me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clothes off,” I say, tugging my shirt up and over my head and squashing it into my locker on top of my shoes. I catch her looking, try to fight the little bubbles of insecurity that her eyes on my shoulders and stomach bring to the surface. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow morning, I decide, I’m going to finally finish assembling that home workout frame. I don’t regret asking Bow to help me order it, but I do resent him ever so slightly for not explaining that I would have to build it myself when it arrived. There’s a reason I wasn’t in the engineer corps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’ll be nice to have the comforting routine of daily training back in my life, though. It’ll be good for me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(It’ll give me my body back, and if my motivation for that is distinctly Catra-shaped, well, it’s still in my best interests to start building my fitness back up and finding something to do with my time that isn’t drinking.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes linger on me a moment longer - I can hear the throbbing music coming from the main pool area and the dance floor, can feel it through the floors, and the way her pupils slither up my body to the pulsing synth and then finally flick away in perfect time with the drop of the beat makes this whole encounter feel surreal, dreamlike.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tugs the zipper down her tiny, tight shirt, slips out of it. No bra. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one staring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If this is a dream, it’s a fucking hot one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I fight my way out of my pants, self-consciously linger on my tank top and boxer briefs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you ever, uh. Get problems here? For the brand?” I ask, my hand warming the thin fabric keeping my scarred Horde insignia from view. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes.” Catra shrugs, regards me with an expression that’s both dismissive and serious, somehow. “Mostly just dirty looks. Nobody’s gonna actually say anything. Worst case scenario, people will swim to the other side of the pool or change their mind about hitting on you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I consider this, roll the idea around in my head, and then make a decision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull the undershirt up and over my head, add it to my pile in the locker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I’m shimmying out of my underpants, I look over and see Catra doing the same thing with infinitely more dignity and significantly more lace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Awfully fancy for something you were just going to take off right away,” I tease. We’re close, but not close enough that I can smell her as she draws the elegant little pair of panties down her thighs. My imagination still supplies the thought that if I were just a little closer, maybe kneeling at her feet and kissing the seam between her hip and her thigh, my senses would be filled with her as she peeled that decorative little snippet of fabric away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I decided this counts as a special occasion,” she purrs, stepping out of them and catching them on the end of one clawed toe, bending her leg up with effortless poise and flexibility, using her foot to pass the delectable article up to her hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I yank my gaze back to my side of the locker room, cram the last of my clothes into the locker, press it shut, lock it with a wave of my wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then I remember my towel is still in there and, trying not to blush at how fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span> the thought of fucking Catra makes me, unlock it again and retrieve the fluffy white towel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I risk sneaking a glance at her and, yeah, she saw. From the crinkle at the corners of her eyes she thinks it’s pretty damn funny, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. I’d better take charge now before I completely lose all of my sensibility to the crackling forest fire of my libido. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I brought a strap,” I say, trying to sound casual. “That work for you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What I don’t say is that I went out and bought it specifically for this, specifically for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds good,” she says, folding her tiny underwear into a neat little square and setting it on top of her tidy pile of clothes, her eyes on me the entire time. There isn’t a smile on her face, but there’s a blazing hunger in her eyes, a sharp urging for me to hurry up and consummate the last several months of flirting and impact play. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You brought the cuffs and harness?” This was part of my request - one extra safety measure… and besides, she looks so fucking hot in that leather chest harness that of course I asked her to make it part of her planned outfit for the encounter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, and now a little grin quirks the corner of her lips. “You want me to put them on?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not yet. Showers first.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We both double check our lockers are locked, and then head into the long, tiled room that’s lined with showerheads. Typically you’d shower </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting out of the pool - the disinfecting archway renders a pre-pool shower unnecessary - but I’ve decided that tonight I want to put my mouth on Catra, and in order to do that I need to make sure whatever I put my mouth on is thoroughly cleaned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Horde’s chemists are perfectly capable of coming up with a concoction that Catra could slather on her skin, waiting to be ingested courtesy of contact with any mucous membrane. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So I back her into a shower nook and turn the water on, and lather my hands with soap from a wall dispenser. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to wash you,” I say, in a clearly non-negotiable tone, and she just laughs and smiles and says </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I work my fingers against her thoroughly and methodically, starting at her neck, and her eyes flutter shut happily under the touch. I keep the contact purposeful instead of sensual, but my hunger for her leaches into the scrubbing, encourages me to take my time and enjoy myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra certainly seems to be enjoying </span>
  <em>
    <span>herself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are still closed when, as I work suds down her left arm, she smiles and says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re doing this because you’re the most paranoid person this side of the Tri-Solar System, but fuck if it doesn’t feel really nice. I could honestly get used to this.” I laugh despite myself, working my way down to her wrist, then massage the soap into her palm, scrubbing between her fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perks of fucking someone wanted by half the galaxy,” I chuckle in an undertone, meticulously taking each of her fingers one by one, being entirely more thorough than is necessary and rubbing the soap in slowly from knuckle to fingertip. I am briefly fascinated by the way gentle pressure makes her claws slide out. “Do you trim these?” I ask curiously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I blunt them,” she tells me, eyes sliding open lazily, dancing with amusement. “Otherwise they catch on my shirts when I put them on. It’s really annoying.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make a thoughtful noise in my throat - it had literally never occurred to me to wonder if she’d have problems with her claws other than, well, during sex - and then move to start at her other shoulder and work my way down the left arm. I feel her relaxing under my touch, under the warm water of the shower, and become aware of our closeness, our total nudity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We never got to be completely naked around each other even when we </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking back in training - it was always just quick, sordid, hiked-down uniforms kind of encounters, fuelled by hormones and eager for anything we could get away with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Our thighs are so close to brushing; I wonder if we pressed together, would her body against mine be as warm as the water, or warmer? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We make fleeting eye contact as I massage clean her forearm; the heat between us is palpable as my touch teeters from precaution and into foreplay, my hands taking cues from the direction of my thoughts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wish you’d let me touch you,” Catra exhales, quiet and full of desire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I swallow, doing rapid risk assessment in my head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me finish washing you,” I say, thinking about where the danger is. Naked and scrubbed clean, there are only a few places left for her to hide a drug or a tracker chip, and only a few ways she’d be able to successfully deliver one or the other into my body. “And then you can touch above the waist and below the neck.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs, shakes her head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is so weird,” she says, looking down at me with that small quirked smile. If she really did defect, she’s been enormously patient with me. That in itself is a mark against her, honestly. It’s deeply suspicious that she’d be this determined to hook up with me in spite of how complicated I’ve been making it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take her left palm in my hand and turn my attention to working it clean. I wonder just what could motivate a person who isn’t an undercover spy determined to secure me for the Horde or the Eternians to put up with my bullshit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How much did it freak you out the first time you got in a water shower and it wasn’t green?” Catra asks unprompted, grinning familiarity in her voice. I snort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought the plumbing was broken or something, refused to get in,” I say. Spinnerella’d had to explain to me that the Horde’s intensely chemical-laden scouring showers are not the norm elsewhere in the galaxy. “It still makes me worry I’m not totally clean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I only have a dry disinfect shower at my place,” Catra says, and I glance up and see her eyes are shut again and she’s got a little smile on as she talks. “Once I found out the rest of the galaxy uses water that has like, ten percent of the abrasive chemical content, I always hated going back after a mission.” I frown, saying nothing, not sure how to react to her bringing up her time with the Horde. I keep washing her hand, carefully ensuring I don’t miss a single crease. “If I’d been away for a while, my fur would start coming in really thick, and then as soon as I got back to the Black Garnet I’d start losing big clumps of it in the shower again. It drove Shadow Weaver fucking crazy, she was always having to call maintenance whenever I was on board. Not my fault my body doesn’t like the shit Prime degreases all his perfect clones with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I finish with her hand, straighten up to start on her chest. Her breath catches a little as I work my thumbs across her sternum, lathering the soap into the aforementioned fur. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s been so long since I’d seen you,” I say, now paying more attention to the thickness of that fur - dark and dense now with the water - as I work the soap into it, “I think if I noticed any difference I just figured it was because you’re older. I don’t know. Do Feleuri have adult coats and juvenile coats? I feel like that’s something I remember reading.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We do,” she says, tilting her chin up and leaning into my touch. “I had mine by the time I was fourteen or fifteen, though.” I slide my hands lower, cupping her breasts. I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it to be a sexual touch, exactly, except that the reason I need to wash her is so that I can put my mouth on her, and that just makes me think about how this means I’m going to be able to get my lips around her cute, perky nipples finally, so maybe there </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a bit of anticipation in the way my fingers stroke and massage, and I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprised by the fact that Catra gasps and goes taut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And maybe, maybe I’m getting some thrill out of it, out of having her yielding to me, accepting this unquestioningly, letting me prepare her almost rituistically for the wild, impatient fucking I have planned for her later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Catra whines, “I can smell how horny you are even through all the water and the chlorine stink coming off the pool.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I murmur, feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>smug</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of exposed, massaging soap into her chest with entirely gratuitous touching while she can only stand with her hands trembling at her sides, forbidden from touching me without approval. She whimpers at the growling, grinning word, eyes fluttering open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she says again, when our eyes meet, clamping hers shut again with eager frustration. “It should be a crime for you to be so hot. Hurry up and fucking wash me so you can fuck my brains out please.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh darkly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think I’ll take my time,” I tell her, reaching over to the wall to get another spurt of soap and then working my way slowly, slowly down to her hips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alright. So maybe this is foreplay now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Asshole,” she mutters, and it sounds like a desperate prayer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Turn around so I can do your back,” I say, and then, when she obeys, I impulsively add: “Hands on the wall. Feet apart.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she exhales harshly, and her tail gives a wild, exuberant flick that smacks blindly at my stomach and thighs before she takes a shuddering breath in and then follows the command. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” I murmur approvingly, and watch her back and shoulders shift as she takes another thick inhale.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wash her back, being deliberately sensual about it even as I’m still keeping track of making sure I scrub enough to get rid of anything. I delicately hold these two truths in my mind at the same time: I believe that she could be trying to kidnap and ultimately kill me, and I want to touch her in ways that make her gasp and shudder and moan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no more idle chat or banter as I press against her and slide my hands around her to wash her thighs. She breathes heavily, keeping her palms against the cool tile of the wall, and I work my way down to her knees before coming back up again and slipping around to her ass. She trembles a little beneath me as I work my fingertips against her lower back and then keens when I take her tail in both my hands and lather it up with soap at the base. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” she groans, her head hanging, her arms tense. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” I croon, putting a hand on her hip as if to hold her in place, as if she isn’t readily doing that </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. The question feels naked without some kind of playful diminutive - like I should be saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, soldier? </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, kitten? </span>
  </em>
  <span>- but those are things we haven’t talked about, and I’ve only ever heard Huntara call her the latter and I feel a bit weird and complicated about the former, so I let it stand alone without the addition of a pet name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her answer is a whimper, not a word, so I just smirk and continue my work. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I crouch down to get her knees and shins and ankles, and then while I’m there I wrap my fingers around one ankle and, on an impulse, press my mouth to the inside of her knee, biting gently at the flesh between calf and thigh. The noise she makes is magnificent, low and helpless, and is worth all the water that runs into my mouth and eyes as I do it. I work my way over to the other leg, and by the time I announce we’re done and shut the water off, she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>panting. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If she notices there’s a part of her I didn’t wash, she doesn’t comment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I say, smirking at the way she seems trapped in position with her hands on the wall, “You can stand up straight. I’m turning on the air now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says, blinking, “Hang - hang on. Let me towel dry. I puff up like an idiot under those things.” I laugh at the mental image but move aside to let her pass back out of the niche and get to her towel. She hesitates as she goes by, then asks, “It’s okay if I touch you now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Below the neck,” I reiterate, “Above the waist.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand comes out then, entirely too gently, and her knuckles stroke down the side of my damp rib cage. She holds my eyes for a moment in a way that makes it clear she’d be kissing me instead, if she were allowed, and then pulls her hand away and sidles over to her towel. I hit the button that activates the air dry, watching her towel off as I’m buffeted by warm air, trying to shove down the way that one little touch made all my insides tingle and flutter with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> that is a kind I know for a fact there isn’t a way to safely indulge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clean and dry, we head back to the locker room. She opens her locker and then wiggles herself into the chest harness, then holds out her wrists so I can buckle the cuffs closed around them. Once I cinch the second one shut, I loop one forefinger through one of the silver D-rings of the harness and yank her towards me; she huffs, staggering into me and looking surprised and eager. I slip an arm around her waist and then bury my face in her neck, biting and sucking greedily at the stretch of her shoulder where it glides into her neck muscles. She groans, and I feel her hands settle lightly on my stomach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She could disembowel me right here, leave me as a corpse well past saving by any medical miracle and walk away licking her claws clean, avenging the fifty thousand Horde dead with one swift cut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I know she won’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not because I trust her, of course - because I trust Shadow Weaver to understand that I’m infinitely more valuable alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I push her back up against the lockers, my body thudding with lust, vibrating along with the echoes of the club’s music. She gasps as I slot my thigh between hers. I grind against her and smirk when my leg comes away slick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Catra whines, “You planning to fuck me right here, huh?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say, trying for smirking and in control and instead achieving </span>
  <em>
    <span>shaky</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>impatient. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Let me get the strap and then let’s go to the pool area.” I disentangle myself from her reluctantly, pop open my locker, and rummage past the piles of my clothes to get into the little canvas bag I brought that holds the toy and the harness for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised that your strap of choice is fucking huge,” Catra teases. “Compensating for something, huh?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want it to </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> you before it starts to feel good.” I say darkly, letting my hunger for her and my hunger for her pain and surrender flood unrestricted into my voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck</span>
  <em>
    <span> me,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them again quickly, looking so - so vulnerable, so open, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>raw.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Let’s go then.” The words are an imperative, but her tone is all but begging. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go,” I confirm, purring with confidence, and put my arm around her waist, holding the strap, loosely dangling by the harness, with my other hand. I guide her out to the pool area, through the crush of people, and to the side of the pool where long expanses of pleather seating stretch around it in an undulating ring that follows the shape of the water feature. The ‘seats’ are deep enough that it would take two - maybe three - standard issue Horde bunk mattresses to cover them, so they’re really more like long, shiny red beds than anything resembling a bench. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We find an empty spot, bracketed on one side by three lizardfolk enthusiastically going at a svelte, blue-lilac Old Etherian and a pair on the other side that is so entangled I can’t tell their species at a glance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Directed by a little push, Catra shimmies up onto the squishy red surface, sprawling back alluringly and watching as I stand at the edge and buckle on the harness, adjusting the toy to jut out from between my thighs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is one, final little whisper of panic in the back of my mind as I fondle the silky silicone cock in one hand and lay my eyes on Catra as she holds my gaze and spreads her knees invitingly like something out of an erotic fantasy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is a terrible idea and it’s going to get me killed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra pulls her lower lip into her mouth, staring hungrily at me, showing just the smallest wet little flash of fang to mirror the wet shine of her cunt, and I suck in a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If this gets me killed,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I think, crawling on top of her and greedily enveloping her body with mine,</span>
  <em>
    <span> it’ll be worth it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I rock my hips, rubbing the toy against her just for the pleasure of hearing her breathing hitch. She reaches for me, running her hands across my collar bones, fondling my breasts, and a growl of pleasure slips out of me before I can reassemble myself and seize her wrists, clipping them to the sides of her chest harness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes no complaint about having her hands bound again, only writhes her hips up against mine and tilts her chin back, arching her body into me. I give another jerk of my pelvis, sliding the toy up and down against her, and lose myself in the way she pulls her arms helplessly against the restraints keeping her wrists at her ribs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, you’re so hot,” I murmur, and she groans a note of impatience and need. I slip one hand between our bodies, stroking her stomach, then trailing it down between her legs. She whines my name as my fingers find her clit, and I nip at her neck in reply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I delve down with both my hand and my mouth, letting my eyes fall shut as I focus on the blissful feeling of her nipple finally in my mouth, against my tongue, secured between my lips. At the same time, I cant my hips back and withdraw the toy, easing my fingers down instead. Catra wheezes a long, reedy exhale as I part her open with index and ring finger and then, unimpeded, run the full length of my middle finger up and down against her clit. She gasps, bucks beneath me; I bite down - </span>
  <em>
    <span>gently - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and try to commit the sounds she makes to memory. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please,” she murmurs, “please, please just - please - </span>
  <em>
    <span>take me, fuck, I - </span>
  </em>
  <span>ah!” And there, I’ve found it, the rhythm. I settle myself between her legs, smirking with a mouthful of her tit, and lock my arm into the exact stroke that got that last gasp out of her. She writhes, shudders, gasps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me when you’re close,” I growl, pulling away just long enough to issue this command, and then recapture my hungry hold on her sweet flesh. She’s clean and damp and warm and mine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all mine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I think maybe this is all there needs to be to life, after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Decades of military discipline meant fuck all to my ability to resist her, but they certainly help me keep to the exact pulsing friction of my hand against her, relentless, unshakable, unwavering perfection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And fuck, it feels so good to be able to achieve perfection again. The high of hearing her whines and gasps get louder and louder as I keep up the pressure is like the high of getting the perfect score in the flight sim week after week. I can’t fail, I won’t fail, and finally I feel in control again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She begs and babbles below me, desperate for more and less all at once, desperate to diffuse the intense stimulation with penetration, but suddenly I’m not in the mood to be merciful, and I drive her right up to edge of her pleasure with a feral growl into her collar bone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her body starts to coil tight around me, and I smirk. I haven’t even broken a sweat yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I growl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Close,” she whines. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” I say, and pull my mouth away from her. I sit up, still rubbing her clit but losing my momentum and my angle. It doesn’t matter - I want to be inside her when she comes. “Lube,” I say, and she nods rapidly, in a daze. I reach over her to the wall behind us, waving my hand under the motion-sensing lube dispenser. Salineas has these every ten feet through the whole club - free bottomless lube.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>bottomless.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This smug train of thought is interrupted when the dispenser whirrs and a gel capsule plops into my palm instead of the spurt of liquid I was expecting. I sit back and look at it in brief, startled confusion. Beneath me, Catra laughs a breathless, creaky little laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. You have no idea how lube caps work, do you?” She shakes her head, blinking like she’s surfacing from a dive underwater, and grins at me. “Sometimes I’d swear you were a virgin if I hadn’t fucked you myself already,” she says, and I frown, embarrassed. Obviously I need to be rougher, if she’s still capable of full sentences (and of making fun of me). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not all of us got to go running around the galaxy seeing how other factions do things,” I mutter, turning the gel cap around in my palm. You could mistake it for a medicine pill if it weren’t the length and thickness of my thumb. Maybe a fucking Torstosian suppository. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The outer skin dissolves with body heat,” Catra explains, tittering an adorable little giggle and flexing her hands in their cuffs like she’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> love to help, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>she weren’t just a bit tied up right now. “The lube is inside.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I mean, I figured out that the </span>
  <em>
    <span>lube</span>
  </em>
  <span> would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I snort, a grin cracking out on my face. I look more closely at it and peel my finger up off of it and realize it’s left a gooey melted fingerprint where the gel container’s already started to dissolve. “Okay. This isn’t complicated.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra just smirks up at me; I roll my eyes and lean in to bite at her stomach in retribution, just below the lowest strap of the leather harness. She gasps, and then teases:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna have fur between your teeth for the next week at this rate.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flex my fingers, feeling the puddle of goo expanding out in the palm of my hand into a proper palmful of lube.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh,” I retort, and then, in lieu of some kind of clever answer, slide two of my now slippery fingers inside of her right up to the knuckle. She gasps, her stomach pressing up and into my face as she jerks. “Like that, do you?” I mutter. I pull out and reposition, kneeling between her knees and holding one of her thighs with my free hand, and then drive into her again. I watch as she throws her head back, eyebrows pinched together. Her throat bobs with an unreleased whimper as I slide my fingers in and out of her, slow and torturous, leaning in with my body weight to press them as deep as they’ll go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Catra wheezes through gritted teeth. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I speed up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time she can’t stop the whimpers </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> the groans. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I curl my fingertips on the drawback, activate my core on the slam back in, and watch with delight as each thrust shakes another gasp out of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready for more?” I ask. She makes a high, entreating noise. I pull out, line up with three fingers, and push inside. She snarls, teeth on full display, tail lashing, but the sound slips effortlessly into one of pleasure - and maybe, I realize, it was a sound of pleasure all along. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I move my left hand over from her thigh to settle instead just below her stomach, drawing frantic, messy circles around her clit with my left thumb as I slam the fingers of my right into her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, she feels so good, she sounds so good. I want to put my mouth on her, but I set hard rules for myself before I decided to do this and keeping my mouth to certain zero-risk areas of her anatomy was one of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So no kissing, no eating her out, and no letting her do either of those to me - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ugh, but I need more than this. I pull my fingers out of her, reach across to the dispenser, collect two more caps of chilled lube. I reach down quickly and work them both inside of her - she gasps at the cool, smooth touch - and then push them in deep with my fingers. Her eyes go wide as she realizes just what I’ve done, squirms and then whimpers and swears and clenches around my fingers as the heat of her body dissolves the outer gel and she’s flooded with a gush of lube that oozes down along my fingers, mixing with her own natural lubrication and leaving her a wonderful, ready mess beneath my hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I pull my fingers out and bring the head of the strap against her instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I glance up, expecting her to say something snarky like </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking finally, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or maybe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just fucking take me, you drama queen, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she only watches me with desperate desire, mouth hanging open as she gasps for breath. I rock against her and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>groans. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna take it for me?” I ask, my blood singing with the thrill of seeing her so utterly undone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she whines, so soft I hardly hear it over the thumping music and splashing water and background chatter of the club.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I growl, and start to push inside of her. She huffs, toes curling, face contorting, throat bobbing as she swallows again and again. I pulse my hips, inching in, and she cries out at the stretch. “Good girl,” I say again, even though I’ve never said these words to her before tonight. I lean over her and put my head beside hers, so that I don’t miss out on a single sound she makes, so that she’s completely encompassed by me. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” She whimpers, turns her head to look at me but can’t seem to focus her eyes. “Good. I want it to.” As I say this I push a little deeper, driving what I hope is another little spike of delicious pain through the center of her. She gasps, jerking, panting. “You know I like how you take it for me.” She moans, like every filthy phrase out of my mouth skewers her as effectively as my cock does. I thrust deeper, I take more, I demand her surrender. I think I hear her whisper my name in a strangled cry, and the sound pulls something in me a little looser, jangling like a battle mech with a loose bolt rattling around somewhere inside of its hull. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My thrusts get deeper, rougher, faster, ramping, building speed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra makes a low, deep, unguarded noise under me, and in that moment, we are both just so much meat - just animals, operating on pure unfiltered desire, unhindered by higher brain function. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pin her hard against the red pleather, letting my sense of self melt into the throbbing percussive beat of the music, feeling like the bass is so loud it permeates me right down to the cellular level, and I fuck her to the pulse of that beat. I slip one hand down and rest a thumb against her clit, just to provide some extra pressure and friction, thumping my own hips hard against that thumb with each thrust. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part of me expected her to howl, to yowl, to scream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead she is quiet, unhinged in her softness, wild in her whimpering weakness. I flourish and snarl and fuck, metabolizing the crackling atmosphere of the club and the feeling of Catra finally beneath me, against me, around me. She hooks her ankles together around my lower back, and then everything is a blur of sweat, of secret gasps, of trembling, high vowels and low, stumbling consonants, all of them garbled, all of them wordless, all of them needy and all of them for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me and only me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re so good,” I gasp into her jaw, blinking sweat out of my eyes, fighting with growing fatigue in my muscles. “Fuck, you’re - fuck - you feel so good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m close,” she gasps, and those two words are all the encouragement I need to rally my stamina and renew my long, deep strokes. She shakes with the sudden increase in intensity; I crush myself into her, the leather harness between us sticking on my skin, its metal rings spots of distracting cold biting my torso. I don’t let it slow me down, just fuck my way through it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The song changes to something a little slower, and I unthinkingly adjust my thrusts to match; instead of frantic rutting, I pulse the strap in and out of her luxuriously, smooth and regular and inescapable and </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the way in every time. She starts to tremble in earnest, giving off a series of short, high whines that blur into one long keen as her body seizes with the climax.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I ride through it with her, pulsing my hips steadily, pressing my mouth to the side of her neck, rocking our bodies together as she clenches and shatters and unfurls beneath me. She is silent, silent, silent, as she shakes, and then she throws her head back and takes in a scraping gasp of air and utters one sharp stammering </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah-h-h! </span>
  </em>
  <span>before falling slack, breathing hard. I still my movements, rest my aching muscles, and all but collapse on top of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I’m out of shape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We lie there, sticky and panting and tangled together, my strap still buried inside of her, while we catch our breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want, so badly, to close my eyes and pull her close and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s the other handy thing about having sex out in public - the temptation to rest my eyes for a moment holds nowhere near as much allure as it would in private, in an actual bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Catra grunts, eventually. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” I answer, and then, “Good?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she groans. She takes a deep breath, then says, “You want me to keep the harness on or can I take it off so we can do aftercare in the hot tub?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Aftercare in the hot tub. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Now there’s an idea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My aching muscles really, really like that idea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Catra says, when I don’t reply right away, “Fuck, you didn’t come yet, did you? Did you want me to do something about that first?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I lie, brushing the offer off. I’m too tired to do the risk assessment on potentially safe ways of getting off with her help - my brain feels as spent as my body. I’ll just deal with it at home. “That was - that was really nice.” This much isn’t a lie. If anything it’s the understatement of the eon. “Hot tub sounds perfect, honestly. Here, I’m gonna - “ I don’t finish the sentence, exactly, just slowly start to pull out. Catra sucks in a hissing inhale of discomfort and I frown apologetically, unsure if it’s better to take it out fast or slow, and settle for somewhere in the middle. The thick, gleaming shaft bounces up comically between my legs as it finally comes free; Catra groans and then rubs her thighs together, then looks up at me. It takes me a second to realize she’s waiting for me to unclip the cuffs from her harness; she could probably do it herself, but she’s either too dazed to have the dexterity or too deep into submission to have the willpower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I first unbuckle myself from my own harness, dropping the toy carelessly on the seat and smearing various fluids across the pleather cover. One of the many cheerfully strobing sanitation drones that flits around the club will deal with the cleanup. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then I climb up and detach Catra’s wrist cuffs from her harness; she stretches, smiling blissfully with her eyes closed, and then reaches up and strokes another one of those soft touches down my stomach, regarding me through the tiniest sliver of opened eyes. Her smile grows with lazy pleasure, and I again get the sense that the absent little touch is taking the place of what otherwise might have been a kiss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I burn with impossible envy for a theoretical version of myself that can wantonly trust Catra with kisses, with sleep, with any possible configuration of sex. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder if there’s a way to know for sure, if there’s a way to </span>
  <em>
    <span>prove</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she’s not with the Horde anymore. Maybe I’ll ask Angella about it. (Not likely. Maybe I’ll ask Huntara about it.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lockers, then hot tub?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she murmurs, grinning, opening her eyes fully and wiggling to the edge of the seat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I notice a few people looking at us as she gets her feet under her and I put a protective arm around her lower back, hiding her Horde brand. Mine will still be on full display, but at least the scarification doesn’t stand out as much on my skin as it does against her fur. I grab our towels - no idea whose is whose, at this point, really - and the toy, and - as predicted - the moment we vacate the spot a little drone the size of my palm flits over and starts spritzing the area with disinfectant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I absently wonder just how much of the stuff this place goes through. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once the gear is cleaned and stashed in the lockers and we’re both in the hot tub, I sit with my legs wide and she settles herself sideways between them, curled up against me with her purr rumbling my chest in time with the rumbling bubbles of the tub’s jets. She closes her eyes and sighs with a contentedness that sounds bone-deep, and a little barb of jealousy hooks on my heart at how easily and comfortably she can let down her guard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I dutifully put my arms around her - aftercare is part of the negotiations I agreed to, after all - and nearly jump out of my skin when her hand settles on my bicep. She feels the flinch, withdraws her hand, opens her eyes in surprise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she croaks. “I thought - below the neck was okay?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - “ It’s fine, right? Yeah. It’s. It’s probably fine. “No, it’s okay, you just surprised me.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Really, it’s fine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you say so, Force Captain Jaw Clench.” I snort, then send a nervous glance at the Etherian couple across the hot tub from us; they return my nervous glance with a nervous glance of their own, and then an uncertain smile, which I counter with a smile that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> probably quite uncertain. “Maybe don’t… mention Horde stuff here,” I murmur in an undertone, when the couple quickly gets up and leaves the hot tub a moment later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh, shit, sorry. My brain’s kind of scrambled still.” Her hand finds its way to my arm again. It amazes me how small she can become, tucked into a happy, purring ball in my lap. Her thumb draws meaningless patterns against my bicep, and, relaxing in the hot water, I find to my surprise I’m doing the same thing with my own thumb, except against her hip bone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We’re comfortably quiet for a while, cooking ourselves in the bubbling water and pressed close together, watching other couples and groups arrive, soak themselves for a bit, and then depart again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After some time, Catra makes a little noise in her throat, then says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This was nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I murmur. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can we… do it again sometime?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time, I don’t lie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I say. “I’d like that.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I plan my attack strategically: first, I wait for Bow and Glimmer to invite me out to drinks again. Then I gently encourage them both to drink more than usual. Then I wait for Glimmer to go to the bathroom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only once I have Bow alone and I know he’s fairly tipsy, I broach the subject. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It seems like the most solid plan I’ve got, short of ambushing him in his quarters with a hypo of truth serum, and considering I don’t know where I’d even start to try to get my hands on veriathilin on this station, beer is my next best option. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So Bow,” I start, not looking him in the eye, sipping my beer, “were you the Spymaster when the station caught that Horde spy a few years back? The one Huntara turned in?” We have a private booth in the back of this pub, so I’m not worried about talking shop where other people might hear. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye to watch his reaction to my inquiry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows at me, taking a ponderous sip of his own drink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a pause, he says, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So that’s what you’re up to tonight.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I falter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m - no - I’m not up to anything. What do you mean? I’m just making conversation.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No offense, Adora,” Bow says, putting his beer down with </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely </span>
  </em>
  <span>too much motor control, and I realize with a sudden shock that he was pretending to be more drunk than he actually is, “but you’re a terrible actor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. So much for that plan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Plan B: The blunt application of direct force.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need to know what you’ve uncovered about Catra. I need to know if she’s a Horde spy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Bow asks casually. “Because you’ve been sleeping with her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I choke, feeling myself turning red. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - how do you - “ and then embarrassment slides swiftly into anger. “You’ve been </span>
  <em>
    <span>watching </span>
  </em>
  <span>me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” he says evenly, “we’ve been watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>Catra. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Like you suggested. You’ve got nobody but yourself to blame if you keep showing up in the same places as her. And if you didn’t want us to find out you were… </span>
  <em>
    <span>romantically involved,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he frames this dubiously, “you shouldn’t have been having sex with her in public.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well it’s not like it was safe to have sex with her in </span>
  <em>
    <span>private,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I hiss, my shoulders taut, my jaw clenched. “Or I can’t be sure if it is, since you won’t tell me anything about your investigation.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you never considered, I don’t know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not</span>
  </em>
  <span> sleeping with her?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to wipe the condescending little pinch of his eyebrows off his face. He doesn’t understand, he couldn’t possibly understand. Fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t even understand the intensity of my attraction to her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I took precautions,” I growl. “And I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get more information before I do something stupid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> stupid,” Glimmer says, returning to the table and reentering the conversation seamlessly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, great, so everybody knows,” I huff, putting my face in my hands and rubbing my temples. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” Bow says, “I haven’t told Angella.” I freeze, frown into my palms. He hasn’t told Angella. That’s both a relief </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>a concern, because it means he can hold this over my head, threaten to go to her with the information any time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It looks really bad. I know it does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knowingly fraternizing with a Horde spy. I’m either untrustworthy because I’m reckless and impulsive, or I’m untrustworthy because I’m still working with the Horde. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why,” I ask carefully, pulling my face up from behind my fingers, “haven’t you told Angella yet?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because you’ve seemed happier since you started… </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing </span>
  </em>
  <span>her,” Bow says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re drinking less,” Glimmer clarifies more bluntly, slipping into the booth next to him. “And I’m not one to judge when it comes to ill-advised hookups, generally speaking.” Do I see a bit of heat touching Bow’s face? Hard to tell, with his complexion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you aren’t going to tell me to stop?” I try not to perceive the intense relief this makes me feel. I don’t like that I’m already this invested in getting to see Catra again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d tell you to be careful, but it sounds like you’re being as careful as you can be,” Bow shrugs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>stop,” Glimmer says. “You should leave the sexy covert ops agent alone and find literally anyone else to sleep with. But I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Salineas.” I panic briefly, thinking she means last week, when Catra and I met there to have sex, but she continues: “The way you and her looked at each other from across that pool was so loaded with sexual tension I could have cut it with a knife and then served it in perfect little cubes like a budget cheese platter. I have a feeling I could set you up on dates with my ten hottest female friends and you’d still find your way back to Catra’s bed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t been going back to her place, I’m not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>total</span>
  </em>
  <span> idiot,” I retort, frowning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” Bow sighs, leaning back into the booth seat, twiddling an untouched appetizer on his plate, “You’re sure it’s a good idea?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say, feeling anger boiling up inside me again, “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because you won’t tell me if you know for sure whether she’s still working for them.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would it even matter?” He asks pointedly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course it would,” I snarl. “I may be - “ I gesture wildly, looking for the right phrase, “ - blowing off a little steam with her, but that doesn’t mean I trust her, and that doesn’t mean I won’t happily slap her in cuffs and bring her to administration HQ the moment you tell me she’s definitely still working for them. I’m not disloyal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer shakes her head and rolls her eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow frowns. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look, here’s the truth of the matter: we’ve been keeping an eye on her, but she hasn’t made any contact with anybody suspicious, or made any off-station long distance transmissions. If she’s reporting back to someone or getting orders, she’d have to be doing it through an intermediary, but she hasn’t gone near anybody we’ve got pegged as a potential middleman.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I put my hands around my beer, then let it go again, then look up from my knuckles and into Bow’s eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So she’s clean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Squeaky clean,” Bow confirms. He doesn’t look happy about this assessment, and neither does Glimmer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you still think it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>possible,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I add. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, Adora?” Glimmer sighs. “It’s more that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>still think it’s possible. You’ve got a better sense of the Horde than either of us, and if you can hear all that and think she could still actually be a spy, still somehow manage to be working for Shadow Weaver and trying to carry out some kind of covert mission, we can’t just dismiss your instincts out of hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Instincts. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s a really polite way of putting it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you… do, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>want me to stop seeing her?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow’s frown etches itself even deeper into his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like asking this of you,” he says, “but honestly, I think</span>
  <em>
    <span> you</span>
  </em>
  <span> might be in the best position to figure out where her loyalties lie. I can keep an eye on her externally, but if you’re already spending time with her, if she trusts you and lets her guard down around you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> might be the one to catch her, if she really is working against us.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Huh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I’m an awful actor,” I point out. “You said it yourself.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer laughs, then tries to hide it behind her hand. Right, she was in the bathroom when he said that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right,” he nods. “So she almost certainly already knows you’re suspicious of her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, she knows.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My mind tugs me back to that shower, to her body against my palms, her remarkable patience with the overabundance of caution. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So nothing will be different. You’ll still be trying to pin down the truth, like you have been so far. But now you’re not just sleeping with her against your better judgement.” Bow takes a sip of his beer, and suddenly I think I’m starting to understand how he found himself as the station’s Spymaster General at the young age of early thirty-something. “You’ll be sleeping with her deliberately, to try to assess if she’s a danger.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I reach for my own beer, my armpits suddenly itching with sweat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” I say, mouthing the word and then taking a swig like I’m trying to swallow it back down. I take one gulp, then another. I can do this. It isn’t any different from what I’ve already been doing, is it? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Find opportunities to get her talking. If you feel comfortable with it, you can even strategically make yourself vulnerable to see if she takes the bait and acts on it. We can back you up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to wear a wire to the clothing optional sex club,” I say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow laughs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I wouldn’t have suggested that. But I’ll make sure there are people in place to keep an eye on things. I won’t tell you who they are, so you don’t give them away with your terrible acting, but if you let me know what nights you’re going out, I can make sure you’d be safe if you decided to test her with a little…” he makes an idle motion with his hand, and something slightly wicked pulls at his smile, “...trust fall, if you will.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. Interesting. Maybe he’s not as naive as I thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” I say again, following it up with another gulp of beer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you don’t have to, if you aren’t comfortable with that,” he adds quickly. “I don’t want to play games with your life, even if I’m completely confident Catra wouldn’t get ten feet before we stopped her, if she showed her hand like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod thoughtfully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to use me as bait. I’m not sure I like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it’s not like I have anywhere else in the galaxy left to run to. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Truth be told, the conversation leaves me a little rattled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t go out to the Crimson Wastes for another week, and since Catra and I haven’t exchanged contact information, it means we can’t arrange to meet up at Salineas, either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stay at home, mulling over this new job I’ve been assigned, and trying to figure out why it makes my stomach churn uncomfortably. It’s pretty much exactly what I’d been doing before, giving in to the temptation to answer flirtation with flirtation while still trying to protect myself and determine if she’s still working for the Horde, but it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>different </span>
  </em>
  <span>now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like I’m taking advantage of her. Like I’m using the sex as a way to get close and deliver a potentially killing blow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But if she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> still working for them, isn’t that </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what she’s doing to me? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a week, I end up going just because I’m frustrated and antsy, and not even because I’m really in the mood to play. I push into the club and the smell of it soothes some pacing beast inside of me. I unclench, ever so slightly, and find my way to the now-familiar bar to order a water and sit on the sidelines, watching play. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I consider what Glimmer said, about just picking literally anybody else to do these things with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it’s not that that </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>appealing - I catch Huntara flash me a grin of greeting out of the corner of my eye and offer her a smile and a nod of respect back, and I briefly ponder that flicker of attraction for her that tingles along my limbs whenever I’m around her - but there’s just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> about Catra. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m sure part of it is that she was my first - that I’ve kept those memories of her safe for so long, considered them sacred and untouchable when it came to the uncaring and mercenary way Light Hope used to use my own thoughts and feelings against me. Maybe I’ve just built her up as something - </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> - more special and worth taking risks for than she actually is, after all these years of being so fiercely protective of those memories. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s that as much as she’s Horde, I’m Horde too, and surrounded by all these bubbly Etherians and alien outsiders it’s a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>relief</span>
  </em>
  <span> to talk to someone I know just gets me and won’t judge me or pity me for my upbringing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think about our mutual surprise at non-green shower water and smile to myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look like you’re in a good mood,” Huntara says, settling down next to me at the bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I?” I ask, and I consider this accusation, smiling a little more. I huff, shake my head. “Maybe I am.” It feels weird, but… now that I’m here, now that I’m thinking about her like this, it almost feels like - like an enormous fucking relief, to have permission from someone who is technically a superior officer to chase after Catra, to want her, to just… let go a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And hey! Maybe I’m just self-destructing in a new and exciting way and I’m experiencing the giddy adrenaline rush of someone who has settled on the method they’re going to use to commit suicide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m kind of relieved when Catra doesn’t show that night. I’m in such a weird headspace, I don’t know what I’d do if I saw her walk through that door.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I go back the next night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Catra arrives, I’m there waiting for her at the bar, smiling and sipping at a bottle of water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She meets my eye, grins back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I get up off my stool, go to meet her at the door, and, like this is a perfectly normal greeting, I touch her side the way she touched mine at Salineas - soft, fond, lingering. A kiss of the fingers where the standard sort isn’t permitted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” I say, and instead of heat, there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>warmth</span>
  </em>
  <span> in my voice. Her eyebrows quirk - she can feel the difference as surely as I can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says, brushing her fingertips against my wrist in a response to my unusual hello. Her smile is uncertain but intrigued. “Hoped I’d see you here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take your jacket off,” I say. “Let’s go to Salineas.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hey eyebrows go up even higher, her smile goes from uncertain to </span>
  <em>
    <span>baffled. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t even know if I have plans to play with someone else here tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, do you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I don’t.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Make plans with me,” I urge, bringing our bodies closer. I feel like I’m in freefall, deliciously reckless, unleashed now that I know the station has their own operatives in position to protect me if something goes wrong. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, what got into </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> space wheaties this morning?” She asks, laughing again, holding my eyes and grinning up at me. My hand has settled on her hip; hers is still resting on my wrist. The small spot of contact just reminds me of how </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> it felt for our naked bodies to be nestled together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t exactly tell her that my plans to fuck her have been officially underwritten by the station’s Spymaster General, so I just grin and lean in closer, like I’m going to kiss her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I murmur raggedly, whispering this dangerous truth against the delicate cartilage of one of her ears. Her breath catches, her eyes go a little wider, and then my grin slips into a smirk and I pull away again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grabs at my shirt, pulls me back in, pulls me close. Breath dances between us, hot, used puffs of air rich in carbon, dense with the moisture of our mouths. Her eyes pierce me, daring me - begging me - to kiss her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I consider it for a long, long moment, and then I take her chin in my hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not Salineas tonight, then,” I purr. “Something tells me you’re looking to get some new bruises.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She swallows; I can feel the movement starting in her throat underneath my fingers before I see it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Offering yourself for the job?” She asks breathlessly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I slide my hand from her chin to her jaw, then down her neck. She shudders and closes her eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Say please,” I whisper, riding high on the rush of this wild abandon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, you’re cocky,” she mutters, eyes still closed, chin tilting up to give my hand more access. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you say we try that switch again?” I trace my thumb down her jugular. “I think I’d like to add some new stripes to the backs of your thighs.” She gasps quietly, eyes still closed, chest fluttering. “I can do that for you. If you ask nicely.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whines, and huffs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” she whimpers, “But also - yes please?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the softness of her face that undoes me; the way the tension leaves every muscle, the way the usual lines of her smirking or glowering or posturing - found between her brows, at the corners of her lips, at the edges of her eyes - smooth out and vanish. It’s like seeing the mask slip away, leaving nothing but the woman underneath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take off as much as you feel like taking off,” I say, touching her cheek indulgently one last time before pulling away and heading towards the wall of loaner toys. “I’ll meet you at the spanking bench.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, once I take her upstairs, she’s quiet for a long time, just catching her breath and resurfacing from subspace. I’ve never seen her so dazed before, or for so long, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do other than hold her close and make sure she has access to water, so I do those things and I wait. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She works one hand up the edge of my shirt at some point, and I fight the reflexive flinch as her fingers settle against my bare skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breathing evens out, and I wonder if maybe she’s fallen asleep with her cheek nestled against my chest and her knees pulled up to her chin, but then the purring starts and I know she must be awake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright?” I ask.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” she murmurs, and then, “Need a minute.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s okay. I’m not really in any rush. I feel pleasantly purged of the crushing stormclouds of my thoughts, happy to exist - for the moment - in the physical simplicity of </span>
  <em>
    <span>holding</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the pleasure of that warmth and contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel sort of emptied out, but in a good way - like a bucket placed under a leaky coolant supply pipe to collect the drips, forgotten until it was near to overflowing, and then rescued at the last minute and emptied out into the nearest recyc vent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I also feel empty in one other, very specific way, I’m starting to realize, and right as I think it - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My stomach growls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra’s eyes come open, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>giggles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or did the station just hit a solar storm?” she teases. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m trying to think of how to respond to that when my guts give another lusty groan, and Catra starts to shake against me with quiet laughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hungry, huh?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A little,” I concede, realizing now that I don’t have the distraction of a scene in front of me that I am, in fact, </span>
  <em>
    <span>famished. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Did I eat lunch today? I don’t remember. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra grins into the fabric of my shirt and rubs her cheek against my collar bones. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s a fantastic little hole in the wall noodle shop nearby,” she murmurs blearily, “They make the best akbok I’ve ever had in my life, if you wanna - “ then she cuts herself off. “Fuck, sorry. Nevermind. Forget it. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve tensed up, I realize, and force my arms to loosen, force myself to breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is it, right here - the tipping point. The opportunity to break a fundamental rule I’ve set for myself, a rule Catra will </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m maintaining, and exactly why. It’s what I was afraid of her suggesting, that very first night I ran into her on the station: she’s got a pre-planned location of her own choosing, set up with an opportunity to tamper with my food and drink behind the scenes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can play it off like she somehow forgot who she was talking to in the haze of the post-play fog, like the fact that I’ve relaxed a little bit made her slip and offer something that she knows I can’t accept. It’s a smart way to do it, to make the suggestion and then immediately rescind it, tempting me to chase the lure when she knows I’m hungry - hungry in more than one way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she says again, when I don’t immediately respond. “I wasn’t trying to push your boundaries. I just - it’s my favourite place, I always recommend it to people when they talk about getting food nearby the club. You don’t have to go with me. Assuming you like akbok, anyways, and - fuck, sorry. I’m. Gonna stop talking now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She isn’t purring anymore, and I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> the thing that makes me feel the pang of guilt, that makes me imagine how impossibly cruel I’m being, if she really is innocent, defected from her old life as a soldier and just doing her best to be a normal civilian now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow suggested I find more opportunities to get her talking, and that I deliberately make myself vulnerable to see if she takes advantage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart starts to race fearfully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The idea of deliberately putting myself in danger, deliberately doing something extremely risky to try to draw her potentially murderous intentions out into the open, goes against every single instinct I have. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not even sure how I’d explain the sudden about-face to Catra, if she asks what changed, why I’m suddenly acting like I trust her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s the name of the place?” I blurt, with a sudden moment of inspiration. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The name of the noodle place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Uh. It’s uh - Akbok Paradise, I think?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull it up on my wrist chip; Catra twists in my embrace to watch me do this, expression apprehensive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it this one? Heavenly Akbok?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, that’s it. The sign out front is in both Galactic B and in Hstraka, I always forget which translation is the one the system has registered.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can read lizardfolk?” I ask, genuinely surprised, although I guess I shouldn’t be. Catra probably speaks five or six of the most common languages in the system, if not more. She cringes, then looks around rapidly to see who heard me say that. “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s - fuck, I can’t believe nobody’s explained this to you yet, you’re lucky you haven’t gotten yourself into a fistfight over it. That word is a slur, you know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What word?” I frown. “Lizardfolk?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>saying </span>
  </em>
  <span>it,” she hisses, and, dumbfounded, I clap my mouth shut. “Ugh, I always forget how casually bigoted the infantry is. Has it literally never occurred to you how gross it is to generalize like thirty different completely unique cultures and races with one word just because they look kind of similar to you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say, genuinely startled by this revelation. I’ve always known there are a lot of different kinds of - okay, shit, okay, guess I shouldn’t even think that word anymore? I guess, now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it makes sense that the big ones with the wide heads and the ones with four arms and the ones with long necks and venom maybe aren’t all in one homogenous group. “I had no idea.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Clearly,” Catra says. She looks unhappy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say again, meaning it. “I - I didn’t mean to be - I mean - I wouldn’t have used that word if I’d known.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Catra’s frown softens to a tentative neutrality. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No… I didn’t think you would.” She sighs, then puts her head back against my chest. “Like I said, honestly, I’m surprised you’ve gone this long on the station without finding out the hard way. You could get your teeth knocked out dropping that word in the wrong residential district - and generally you’d deserve it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would’ve been nice for the Etherians to have mentioned it at some point,” I say, a little grouchily. They can teach me about parties and dancing and hair product but not about which words I’ve been using all my life are actually racial slurs. I wonder why Rogelio never said anything to me about it. Maybe he didn’t know either? Maybe he didn’t feel like he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> say anything about it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Surprised it never came up with your welcome-package therapist,” she remarks idly. I hesitate, then shrug, trying to make it dismissive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Guess I just never used that word around them.” I twine my fingers in her hair and rub her head with a slow, quiet motion that’s as much to calm myself down as it is to try to calm her. The conversation trails off. I realize my wrist chip is still projecting Heavenly Akbok’s listing details. “So, uh - this noodle place. It’s really good?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Catra says with her face buried against my shoulder, sounding… tired. “If you end up trying it, you’ll have to tell me how you liked it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We could go tonight,” I say quietly. Her head jerks up; she looks me in the eye, frowning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t read Hstraka,” I say, looking away sheepishly. I pretend I’m studying the listing as I say, “I’d need you to help me order, obviously.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t look convinced. She and I both know I could just use my wrist chip to translate the text, awkward though that might be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s the catch? There’s - this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s no way you’re going to be this normal about getting food with me, no matter how hungry you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My stomach wails, like it’s tired of gnawing on itself and will be out for blood if I don’t address the issue soon enough. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sending the coordinates of the restaurant to a friend of mine,” I say, doing exactly that. I know Bow’s got someone in position at the club, but this extra step of safety is good for both my own security and for coming up with a cover story for Catra about why I’m suddenly trusting her with my digestive tract after refusing to even kiss her for the last three months. “I’m telling him my eta at the restaurant, and if I don’t send the appropriate signal every half hour he’s going to send station security to check on us.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I expect Catra to smile indulgently and say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah, there’s the mega-paranoid Adora I’ve come to know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m disappointed. She just narrows her eyes at me, and then says one word:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pause. As if it has a life of its own, the hand I have resting on Catra’s lower back keeps stroking, drawing light circles with one thumb. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want to try akbok?” I say, and we both know this is complete bullshit. I take a breath, and then try again. “I want to be normal,” I confess, quiet and forlorn and utterly, devastatingly sincere. “At least… as much as I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> be.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The best lies have a kernel of truth in them, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra softens again. The expression reminds me a little bit of the pity I see so often in Bow and Glimmer’s faces, but there’s something else in there, something the Etherians’ expressions always lack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I realize with a twinge in my chest that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>understanding. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Empathy, not sympathy. She’s not just imagining how I feel. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> this feeling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Catra says, gently, like she’s trying not to startle a feral child recently thrust into a Horde creche. “You message your friend, and I’ll take you to my favourite noodle place, but you have to promise not to forget your check-in messages.” In a flash, she shifts from softness to vehemence. “I absolutely do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to inflict the sudden surprise visit of station security on the super nice elderly couple that run the place. I would literally never forgive myself if that happened, they’re the nicest damn people you’ve ever met.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Deal,” I say, and then, on an impulse, I touch her face and say, “Thank you.” Her eyes drift shut and she leans into the touch, and I suddenly regret giving in to that impulse, because the answering ache inside me originates from neither my groin nor my stomach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want to be normal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to cuddle a little more, or do you want to go now?” I ask, and then my gut groans again. Catra grins at me, looking down in the direction of the offending organ. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like you’d rather not wait. I better get my shirt on before you eat </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wish,” I tease, playfully pushing her out of my lap. She snorts, rolling to her feet with infinite grace, and then throws me a little look over her shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she purrs. “I do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she traipses down the stairs to the first floor, leaving me in a momentary daze. I know I’m just following Bow’s directive, letting her in like this, taking all these new risks and allowing our dynamic to change, but I can’t help but wonder if this treacherous path is leading me down into a pit I’ll never be able to climb my way back out of.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what do you recommend?” I ask holding a laminated, slightly sticky menu in my hands and tilting it back and forth like this will enable me to read the unfamiliar script. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pretty much any of the noodle dishes are to die for,” Catra says enthusiastically, perhaps not picking up on the double meaning of the statement. She leans across the tiny table - it’s so small our knees are touching - and points at a section of the menu. “These are all the noodles. I recommend the Galactic Akbok if you’ve never had akbok before.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The server comes over, a - fuck okay I don’t know the right word for the species anymore, a - a reptilian alien with a broad head and wide-set eyes who reminds me distinctly of Rogelio. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Ready to order? &gt; They ask, in a barking series of grunts and huffs. I may not be able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>read</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hstraka but enough of my direct reports over the years have had vocal chords unsuited to speaking Galactic B that I’ve learned to understand it when it’s spoken. It certainly helped spending the first thirteen years of my life with Rogelio. I wonder if he’s dead now. I wonder if he was one of the fifty thousand caught in the pulse - if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>killed him - back at Krytis. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra clears her throat and then, to my surprise, answers the question in a throaty string of pitchy but passable Hstraka. Her face looks absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>hilarious</span>
  </em>
  <span> as she forms her mouth around these sounds that are so unnatural to her body, expression pinched in concentration, but the server seems pleased that she’s making the attempt and I’m honestly just really impressed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Like to order Old World Akbok, kindly, &gt;  she says - I think. The server nods and taps the order into their wrist chip, then turns to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s here to take your order,” Catra says, a little raspily, and I realize that she assumes that because I can’t read it, I can’t understand it spoken, either. I feel like that would make me a pretty shitty Force Captain, if I couldn’t understand half my soldiers, but I don’t correct her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’d you order?” I ask, as if I didn’t clearly hear her placing it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Old World Akbok is my favourite,” she says, with a grin, and then excitement flares suddenly across her face. “Oh! Have you tried soft boiled eggs yet? They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> good. This is my favourite place to get them, they’re laid by </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> animals, these like, weird fat little birds they keep on the station??” Her giddy enthusiasm is infectious - I’m grinning back across the table at her even as I shake my head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure if I have. I’ve mostly been eating a lot of food with no idea what it’s called.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eggs are these - “ she makes a cupping motion with her hands, like she’s holding a tiny invisible ball, “ - little, delicious… I don’t even know how to explain them. Ugh, now I really want one.” She turns back to the very patient server, coughs once, and then says, &lt; Can have, also, extra</span>
  <em>
    <span> khur-hak?</span>
  </em>
  <span> &gt; and I can only assume </span>
  <em>
    <span>khur-hak </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the vocalization that translates to egg. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(But then, it could also be the signal to the server that she’s supposed to drug my food. Dammit Bow, you’d better be fucking right that you can keep me safe in exchange for me putting my life on the line for intel.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have the same thing she’s having,” I say to the server, with a grin. She looks startled, then turns to Catra again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Your friend may be displeased with Old World Akbok. Suggest instead Galactic Akbok? &gt; She grunts, with mild alarm. &lt; Shop doesn’t want problems with perceived insect deception. &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hm. I’m not totally sure I translated that right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, uh,” I ask Catra, “What’s she saying?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, she wants to make sure you know what you’re getting into before you order the Old World style noodles.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why, are they spicy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, they’re uh - they’re made with insect flour, instead of wheat flour.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at her blankly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I literally have no idea what the difference is,” I say. Catra shrugs at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A lot of Etherians get squirmy about eating food made with bugs, I think?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This, I think, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But they eat stuff like </span>
  <em>
    <span>fish</span>
  </em>
  <span> all the time,” I counter. “Have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> a fish?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> fish,” Catra says, beaming. The server makes an impatient noise; Catra glances at her, then back at me. “Okay, so, just to clarify, you have no issues with the noodles being made of insect flour.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If it’s your favourite, that’s the kind I want to try,” I say confidently. Food is food, and before coming to the station I’d never given any thought whatsoever to what went into making it. “I have put so many bizarre things into my mouth in the last four months, if you told me it’s normal for people outside the Horde to eat, I don’t know, triangles of jelly made of weird tree juice, I would just accept that you’re telling the truth.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra giggles - I feel kind of warm inside at having made her laugh, can’t stop myself from grinning at the sound - and then she turns to the server and confirms that I’m fine with the order as is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Makes sense that you’d like the noodles made with insect flour better than the ones made with wheat,” I say, belatedly remembering that wheat is a type of plant. “You’ve got a higher protein requirement than us leaf-munching Eternians, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eternians</span>
  </em>
  <span> is out of my mouth I realize my mistake and stiffen up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks</span>
  </em>
  <span> at me. Our knees are still touching under the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a secret you’re pure Eternian, you know,” she says, quiet, even, careful. Again with that tone like she’s trying not to startle me. “Baron Hordak took plenty of kids from all those Eternian colonies we crushed over the last hundred years. You were hardly the only one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let out the breath I was holding, ease up just the smallest bit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Guess I’ve gotten used to passing as Etherian,” I mumble, looking around the tiny, cramped restaurant. None of the other patrons - all of them - uh - reptilian - seem to be paying any attention to us at all. “They’ve got so much Eternian blood in their population at this point that I blend right in most of the time.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eternians do like their genocides in a variety of flavors,” Catra mutters darkly. “No offense.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“None taken. Fuck those bastards,” I say bitterly, and suddenly I </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> much want a beer. I wonder how bad of an idea that would be. I scramble for a change of subject, some kind of segue to something that isn’t related to my status as the hottest new war crime delivery system. “So.” I shift awkwardly in the extruded plastic seat. “Uh. How’s work been going? At the tattoo place? You still doing that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Catra says, now smiling, and I’m grateful that she goes along with the change of conversation direction willingly. “I think I’m starting to get better. You wouldn’t believe how many different kinds of shading there are. I am starting to get sick of drawing flowers, though. They’re Perfuma’s specialty, and I guess she like, can’t conceive of somebody not loving flowers as much as she does, so I spend hours and hours </span>
  <em>
    <span>drawing </span>
  </em>
  <span>flowers and </span>
  <em>
    <span>painting</span>
  </em>
  <span> flowers and </span>
  <em>
    <span>inking</span>
  </em>
  <span> flowers and - don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh</span>
  </em>
  <span> at me! My life is suffering, I’ll have you know.” She straightens in her seat with a mock-glower, and I ineffectively hide my giggle behind a fist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sounds like misery,” I say from behind my knuckles, grinning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, it’s just - </span>
  <em>
    <span>so many flowers </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and then on top of that, I think my boss has a crush on my roommate, which is just the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because despite them being in their thirties they both fucking act like they’re fourteen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your roommate?” I prompt, ears suddenly perked. This is it - this is the information gathering I’ve been officially encouraged towards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She brought me lunch one day while I was at work,” Catra says, rolling her eyes but fighting down a fond smile at the same time. “Big fucking idiot. I can buy my own damn lunches. She said she’d made too much on her day off and didn’t want it to go to waste but I know that was a lie to come scope out my new work and make sure they were treating me right. Now my boss won’t stop fucking asking me questions about her.” She puts on an airy, vacant-sounding voice: “What, would you say, is Scorpia’s favourite flower? Does she have a favourite color? If she were a </span>
  <em>
    <span>wind chime, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span> do you think she would be?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t even know Catra’s boss and I’m laughing at the impression, at the ridiculous way Catra flaps her hands through the performance. Still, eyes on the prize, I try to lead the conversation in the direction I want it to go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your roommate sounds, uh.” I grin. “Like she has good intentions.” Catra scoffs - but again, she’s smiling as she does it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For being one of the few people on this fucking station with a rock-hard exoskeleton, she is objectively the softest, squishiest person I have ever met in my whole damn life. It’s a miracle she survived as long as she did in the Horde.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She was Horde? Did you know her from before? Was she from your division?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Scorpia would make a </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible</span>
  </em>
  <span> spy,” Catra says, making a face. “We were crechemates. You probably heard about our group - the miscellaneous sock drawer of rare and unusual species.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The One-Offs,” I blurt, before I can catch myself and wonder if that, too, is a term that I should stop using.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Catra says wryly, and I’m relieved when she seems nostalgic instead of upset. “That was us. None of us fit in with the other groups so they just threw us all together and figured at least that made some kind of organizational sense, at least until they could figure out how to make us useful to the Horde. The other kids liked to pick on Scorpia, since she’s such a softy, and I guess that pissed me off, so. I did what I could to protect her. Tried to toughen her up a little, but that never really went anywhere. Got easier after her growth spurt though. Then suddenly she was the one looking out for me, even though she was still the same old softy.” As she talks, she runs the tip of a claw along the groove of the table’s edge, scraping up ancient caked-in gunk worn deep into the crevice of the fiberglass. “Once she got big, though, she was pretty much fucked, since that meant she ended up shunted into infantry. That was around the same time I got assigned to the Black Garnet, so I was ten… which means she would have been like thirteen or so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were assigned to covert ops training at </span>
  <em>
    <span>ten?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m equal parts horrified and impressed. No wonder by nineteen she seemed so completely over it all, like she felt she was above the rest of her training group and </span>
  <em>
    <span>well</span>
  </em>
  <span> above us infantry leadership track trainees. “I didn’t make my specialization track until I was fourteen.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Catra says, grinning, “I remember you bragging about it. You were the youngest person ever to get picked for the leadership training at the time. I don’t know why I’m surprised you’re a cocky asshole now, considering when we met each other for the first time you had an ego so big it could scuttle a Dreadnought.” I laugh at the accusation; she’s not wrong. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And yet for some reason you still liked me,” I smirk, leaning back in my seat and raising a smug eyebrow at her. “How embarrassing for you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her shin rubs against mine under the table, and her eyes glint with a wicked glee as she purrs: “The bigger the ego, the more fun it is to put someone in their place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heat floods through me, sudden and potent and visceral, and my breath catches in my throat. She pins me in place with her eyes, holding that predatory smile with cool control. My heart throbs both in my chest and in my groin; I swallow, try to clear my head. She huffs a little chuckle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she whispers, looking down her nose at me like I’m the dinner she ordered and I’ve just arrived, steaming and delectable and good enough to eat, “That’s what I thought.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To my enormous, unimaginable relief, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual </span>
  </em>
  <span>food arrives in that moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The server places both bowls down, one in front of Catra and one in front of me. I don’t touch mine, and instead wait and watch as Catra pulls the huge ladle-like spoon from hers and takes a tentative sip of the broth. Once I’ve seen her swallow it, I unceremoniously reach across the table and swap our bowls, stealing hers out from under her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks at me wordlessly, then shrugs and dives into the bowl intended for me, instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, if they drugged my food on a subtle order from Catra, it’s at least not in the broth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My stomach growls impatiently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lean in, always ultimately a slave to my body’s basest of urges, and lift a spoonful of broth to my lips. From the first sip, I know that - risks be damned - I am going to have to come back to this place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is so good,” I groan, reaching for the chopsticks and fishing out several thick, deliciously chunky noodles. I shovel these into my mouth, shutting my eyes to appreciate the rich, salty, savory taste of them, the perfect chewy texture. I have no regrets about my order. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Try the egg,” Catra says excitedly, pointing with her own chopsticks at a very pretty looking white oval with a golden center. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hesitate - maybe the drug is in the egg. Maybe that’s why she didn’t hesitate to eat my bowl. Maybe both the eggs are drugged. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Maybe I am slightly delirious with hunger.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You first,” I say. She raises her eyebrows, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you serious, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I don’t yield. So she shrugs, plucks the egg out of her bowl, and stuffs it into her face with a muffled, chewy sigh of pure bliss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once I’ve seen her swallow, I too take my egg - a bit more precariously, because Glimmer only just taught me how to use chopsticks a few weeks ago, sick of me using my hands for everything - and manage to get it into my mouth. My eyes pop open with surprise at the combination of textures and flavors. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Viff iff FO GUD,” I exclaim excitedly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gross, Adora,” Catra laughs, nearly choking on a noodle. “What are you, five? Don’t talk with your mouth full. And of course it’s good! I told you it’s good. I wouldn’t lie to you about something as serious as food.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You might,” I accuse, having swallowed my egg and immediately wishing I had more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses, noodles hanging halfway to her mouth, then lowers them back down to her bowl. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” she says, staring at her bowl, prodding at its contents, “There is something I haven’t been completely honest with you about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mirror her, lowering my own chopsticks. My heart picks up as I wait, nervously, for whatever it is she’s about to confess to. I run through everything she’s told me so far, try to think of what critical thing she might have lied to me about. My muscles tense, ready for action, and I check - for approximately the thirteenth time since our arrival - my route to both the front entrance and the fire exit. My imagination clearly pictures it: her smirking, declaring </span>
  <em>
    <span>I was working for the Horde all along, </span>
  </em>
  <span>right as a squad of clones burst into the restaurant, seizing me as the paralyzing agent I’ve just stupidly slurped down kicks in and renders me helpless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she doesn’t say that, and that doesn’t happen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What she says is:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t defect because of Krytis. I defected because of Scorpia.” She looks at me for just a fraction of a heartbeat, mutters </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t let your noodles get cold, </span>
  </em>
  <span>then looks back down at her food and elaborates. “I hadn’t seen her in years when she came to me for help. It was… eight or nine years ago now, I think. She was… she was suffering so much. She’s really not someone who was ever meant to be a soldier. Her superior officers were horrible to her like, you know, they always are, but she took it hard when she did badly and they punished her, and took it even harder when she did well and her reward was more blood on her hands. Or, I guess,</span>
  <em>
    <span> claws,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but. You know what I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch her tell this story to her akbok, obediently going back to eating as I quietly let her talk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She knew I was covert ops, caught me when I was back in the Fright Zone between missions, begged me to help her. It was a big risk for her to come to me. I don’t know why she trusted me not to turn her in, when I hadn’t seen her since we were kids, but she came to me and laid it all out and asked me to somehow smuggle her out of the system and get her somewhere she’d never have to fight again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you helped her get to Etheria Station,” I say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Catra says, shaking her head. She takes a breath, meets my eye. “I planned for us to </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> escape. Got the supplies together, arranged to steal the ship, prepped a big distraction. I spent six months putting our escape plan together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can feel where this story is going; my food sits forgotten.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You got caught.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I got caught,” Catra confirms. Her hand on the table flexes, unflexes. She can’t seem to make her claws retract. I notice the fur is standing up on her arm. “I made her take the supplies and the ship and run for it. She didn’t want to go, said she wouldn’t leave me behind. I - I don’t want to talk about the details, but I forced her hand. The short version is that she got out, and I stayed behind to make sure she’d be able to get away clean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should have been executed,” I say, without thinking. “I mean. I don’t - I don’t think that, I - that’s what the punishment is supposed to be for deserters.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra huffs, pulls her lips up at me in a smile that is entirely insincere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was too useful to just throw away,” she says softly. “So I was… disciplined. And reconditioned. I re-swore my allegiance, and Shadow Weaver tightened my leash, and I threw myself into becoming the perfect infiltration agent she’d always insisted I’d be if I stopped fighting her training methods.” She sets her utensils down against the edge of her bowl, massages her wrist. I can see the tendon popping out from the heel of her hand like a taut steel cable wire, she’s tensed her fingers so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And Krytis was the first time you had another opportunity to escape,” I suggest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I saw the chance,” she says, rubbing the tension from her palm, easing her claws back down, “and I took it. So. There you go. That’s why I really left. I’d known for years that what we were doing was fucked up, but I figured if the other side of the war was just as fucked up, what did it matter who I was fighting for? But Scorpia… she didn’t see it that way. So when I saw what being in the Horde had done to her after all those years, remembering what she’d been like when we were just stupid little kids, it just…” She shrugs sullenly, then looks up from her hand and at me again. “I mean, you get it. You know there’s… there’s a line there, something between </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn, this sucks I guess, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn, this sucks and I just can’t fucking take it anymore. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scorpia was what made me cross that line. I’m not - I won’t ask you what made </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>cross that line, but obviously something did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold her eyes for a while, wanting, wanting </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>badly to believe that this is the truth, that she’s done with the Horde, that this is who she is and who she’s been for years.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because I don’t think I can take it if this turns out to be some big dramatic lie to tug on my heartstrings. I really don’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Krytis made me cross that line for the Eternians,” I say, because, covert ops agent or not, I can’t bear the thought of her believing that I’m okay with the slaughter of millions of innocent civilians, even in exchange for a huge military victory. I’ve seen the news feeds, the Eternian Emperor bragging about how the ‘sacrifice’ of the people of Krytis secured the ceasefire treaty, ‘bringing peace to the galaxy’, blah blah blah. “They knew it would kill everybody on the planet. They evacuated all their own people, but they didn’t bother warning the Krytans. They couldn’t let Horde Prime get suspicious and pull his forces away from the planet, after all.” I blink, hard, clutching tightly at my spoon. “Millions of people killed just to take out Prime’s favourite vessel, to make some stupid, egotistical point and try to scare him when he literally just hops into a new clone and carries on like nothing happened.” I grit my jaw. I need to stop talking. Spilling my guts to her in the middle of a noodle shop was not the fucking plan. But I can’t seem to stop. “They sent me to die. I wasn’t supposed to survive. It’s not a miracle that I’m alive - it’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>malfunction.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” she says, and I see her reaching across the table for my hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I say sharply, and she jerks her hand away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I collect myself, counting breaths, thinking about Huntara’s advice to pick five things I can hear, and see, and feel. Catra waits for me, and when I return once more to a state where I can look at her, she’s slurping down noodles and watching me with eyes that have seen so much fucking death and cruelty in two endless decades of deployment, and I know my eyes must look the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyways,” I say, taking a deep, shaky breath. “In conclusion, fuck those guys.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck ‘em,” Catra concurs. “You want a beer?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know what. Yeah, I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Beer, please! &gt; She grunt-burps across the tiny restaurant to the server, and I snort a laugh. "What?" She demands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your accent is </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh, like you'd know.” She grins, and it feels like a breath of fresh air to see her smile again. “You don't even speak Hstraka.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Don’t speak or read it, but I can understand signed and spoken Hstraka just fine, </b>
  <span>I sign quickly, smirking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you little shit! You let me have that whole conversation with her about the insect flour and you could have been having it yourself!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, don’t feel too bad. You taught me the word for egg today!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the server comes by with our beers, Catra and I are engaged in a back and forth game of yelling EGG across the table at each other, her in spoken Hstraka and me in signed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The platoon of clone kidnappers never manifests. I make it back to my quarters safely, and I sleep better that night than I’ve slept in years. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>My senses thrum happily, basking in the tide of input. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m ever so slightly buzzed. The glass is cool against my fingertips, the alcohol is hot in my stomach and against my throat. I can smell chlorine and sweat and the crush of the dancers wafting off the dance floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The light is low, the music is loud, and my eyes, well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My eyes, as always, are on Catra.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I put my glass to my lips, slowly, and touch the tip of my tongue to its edge with a hedonistic kind of slow luxury before I tip it back for another sip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra moves like she exists in another dimension from the other dancers, like the rhythmic ripple of her flesh and brilliant, lithe muscles were made for this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>destined</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this, and everybody around her can only aspire to that connection with the music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch from the bar, legs crossed and attention unwavering, like the sight of Catra is just for me and I’m unashamed of my possessive, openly hungry stare. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each pulse off the synthetic percussion is so loud I can feel it. I wonder if it bothers her ears, that it’s so loud, but she seems lost in another world, eyes closed, a smile on her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I drink her in. Her skill is beyond my comprehension - her pleasure, too. Bow and Glimmer tried to teach me how to dance, but nothing about it has ever appealed to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Until now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra moves like a liquid, like her bones are purely optional, like nothing but her own desire to move is relevant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is flashes of expression, quirks of smiles, flickers of smirks, happily lowered eyelids and recklessly gyrating hips and shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t seem to have eyes for anybody else; this dance is for her, and her alone. She doesn’t belong to anybody, doesn’t answer to any call but that of the pulsing beat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m sure I’m not the only one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch her for so long and with such untampered decadence that it honestly comes as a surprise when she turns towards me and catches my eyes from across the dance floor - like I’m startled that she’s able to see me, like I expected somehow that I could observe without being observed in return. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Between the end of one song and the beginning of another, she strides towards me. I watch, I sip my alcohol, I regard - with </span>
  <em>
    <span>significant </span>
  </em>
  <span>interest - the side to side sway of her hips, the luminescence of her eyes and the way that reflected light catches in her lowered eyelashes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says, waiting until we’re inches apart. She smirks. I put my hand on her waist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I tingle with alcohol and with lust and with the smell of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” I say back, and we’re eye to eye, with me sitting on the bar stool and her between my legs, my fingertips inching up the back of her transparent mesh shirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, her nipples are so cute, her lower lip is so enticing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want all of it - all of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>- in my mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatcha drinking?” She asks, having to bring those lips to my ear to be heard over the music. I don’t discourage this closeness. The opposite, in fact; I wrap my arm around her waist, turn my head to press my nose and mouth against the curve of her neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>everybody</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know that she’s mine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ikthak on ice, hint of bitters, splash of sugar water.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs; I feel it more than hear it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You drink like an old man,” she teases. I counter this by stroking my free hand down her back and then along the first foot of her tail, and she arches into the touch </span>
  <em>
    <span>delectably.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m almost done the drink, so I cant it towards her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want some?” I offer. She takes it from me, sipping without breaking eye contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she admits, “That’s pretty good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Finish it,” I encourage, stroking my thumb against her hip. There’s only another swallow left and I won’t touch it after she’s had her mouth on it anyways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I enjoy the sight of her throat working as she drinks the rest of my drink, painted lilac and then turquoise and then aquamarine by the lights of Club Salineas.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull her close as she lowers the glass to the bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You want to head to the shower?” she asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say, decadent with reckless lack of caution. Bow has his agents in place. If Catra’s rubbed a neurotoxin into her fur, waiting for me to be stupid enough give in to my desire to taste her, well - that’s Spymaster General Bow’s problem to deal with now. It would certainly be all the proof we need that she’s working for the Horde. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No?” she repeats, surprised, like she’s misheard me over the relentless, passionate sway of the music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stand, press her against the bar, pinning her hips with my own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her pupils are so wide they’re almost as round as mine, for once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I confirm, pressing our torsos together so that I can graze my teeth against a silky ear as I growl: “I want to watch you undress, and then I want to get in the pool.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She exhales; the music is too loud for me to hear it, but I feel her stomach collapse with it under my hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, yes, yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>growls my body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can smell you,” she says, like this is an answer. Her pelvis tilts up, grinding against mine. It feels unreal, like an incredible dream. “I can smell how badly you want me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” I chuckle into the side of her face, grinding into her. “All</span>
  <em>
    <span> I</span>
  </em>
  <span> smell is chlorine and disinfectant and sweat.” I touch the base of her tail again, not quite gentle, not quite rough, and her sudden breath is hot on my neck. “But I still know you want </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> pretty fucking bad, too.” She </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> want me. She’s put up with so much, she’s waited so long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, if she wants me, she’s got me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We head to the locker rooms and strip. I want to press her to the wall and put my hand between her thighs and tell her what a good girl she is, bite her and fuck her right fucking here, but I hold on by the last frayed strands of my remaining self control and instead lead us out to the pool area. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You first,” I say, and watch greedily as she sheds her towel and descends into the water like some goddess returned to corporeal form for the sole purpose of driving me absolutely fucking insane. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I follow after, and we float to an unoccupied edge of the pool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything is warm. Warm water on my skin, warm heat inside of me - just one drink, not enough to be sloppy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, most wonderfully, warm Catra against me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I touch you?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Same as last time,” I say, already kind of forgetting why I’m bothering to enforce those rules as I take her hand and place it against my naked waist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She touches me, and it feels so, so, so fucking good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We sink into the pool up to our necks, and under the cover of the water, her hands explore my torso, my back, my ribs, my breasts, and for once I just allow it, just enjoy the experience of being touched and curl my head into her neck and soothe myself with the smell of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s something painfully gentle about the way she touches me, like her fingertips are asking a soft question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I imagine that with anybody else, the question might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>who hurt you - </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I know Catra wouldn’t be asking that question. She knows all too well who hurt me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something snaps and tugs inside my chest as I consider that everybody who ever hurt me - the Horde, the Eternians - has hurt her in some way too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That thought is more than I can bear. I take her hands and flip us around so that she’s the one with her back against the wall of the pool, and then as the lights flash blue-purple-blue-purple-blue to the music, I slide my thigh between hers and seize her hips and I kiss her neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I follow the length of magnificent muscle and sinew, my lips rude and reckless as they interrupt that perfection with their crude admiration, a dissonant chord of hungry, grasping notes intruding on an already-complete composition that needs no new additions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gasps, I think, or maybe that’s a sigh. Maybe she’s murmuring my name.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But her hands come up my back, and everything feels good and warm and she seems so pliant and so willing, and finally I think I can just fucking let the dice fall and decide that whatever happens happens, and I’m going to let myself feel good in the meantime.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what you want,” I breathe into her ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You,” she says without hesitation, and that right there is maybe the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life, but it doesn’t answer the question I’m trying to ask, doesn’t grasp the equality I’m trying to offer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean it,” I say. “Tell me how you want it. Tell me what you need.” I push a palm down her leg, smoothing the fur of one glorious thigh, inviting her to lay out exactly what she wants, encouraging her to be greedy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want her. I want to make her come. I want to feel her tremble against me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to make her fantasies real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Catra groans against me. “You don’t mean it. What if I want something you can’t give me? Don’t fucking tease me. Just do whatever you’re comfortable doing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That, of course, makes me feel unpleasant - something like a knot of discomfort and guilt and… something competitive? Something… </span>
  <em>
    <span>reckless, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes. Definitely reckless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me,” I snarl, pushing her a little harder against the wall of the pool, gripping her with a bit more force. “Be good for me now and tell me.” She whimpers; I clench and throb in response to the sound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want - “ she pauses, gives a huff that seems equal parts embarrassed and lust-ridden, “I want to - I want to make you feel good.” I dip my fingertips into her waist, rock my body against hers, revel in her hands against my shoulders. “I want to get to make you come. And then I want you to - “ she gasps as my hand slips up and I palm one of her breasts, “ - I want you to tell me I’m good, and tie me down and hit me and then fuck me hard as my reward.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I growl, nipping my teeth at the stretch of her throat below her chin, like I can catch and taste the flavor of the little desperate whimper of hers that those two words evoke. “I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No secrets, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is what I can’t quite say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No secrets. No lies. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though I’m the one keeping secrets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though I’m the one telling lies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whimpers again, and I feel her hands tighten on my back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want,” she starts to say, then stops. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me,” I say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want - I want you to kiss me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She says these words, and the fear that’s always bubbling in the back of my mind kicks up to a high enough boil that for a moment I can’t ignore it, have to look it in the eye and spend a few heartbeats trying to convince it to settle back down again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t promise that,” I say, finally. To her credit, she doesn’t deflate, or express her disappointment, or try to change my mind or pressure me in any way. “But I think the rest can be arranged.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She murmurs. How much of the hope I hear in her tone is my own ego, my own desire, my own optimism painting over a single syllable in tones of urgent worship?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s dry off and go check out that dungeon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so, later that evening as I cuff Catra’s hands behind her back and push her roughly to her knees and guide her head between my thighs, I firmly banish all thoughts of worst case scenarios, of the Horde and Shadow Weaver and secret agents, and I allow my mind to narrow down to nothing but the heat of Catra’s mouth enveloping my clit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lean back against the wall and press my fingers against her scalp, twining them through her short hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I close my eyes, and for a little while, everything goes away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No Eternia. No Horde Prime. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only this, only the thrum of music and the buzz of liquor and the inferno of Catra’s rough tongue driving against me with blissful pressure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good girl, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I growl, over and over again, bucking my hips against her, holding her head in place hard. She whimpers into me and that only encourages my wild thrusts. All she has is her mouth, with her hands cuffed behind her back, and she puts that mouth to good use. I fuck her face until my legs are trembling, and then I pull away and admire the blood on her swollen lip, and - panting, throbbing - lead her over to a bench so I can sit and she can resume while I lock my ankles across her shoulders and grab her hair tighter, rougher. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a little while, I think I’m not going to be able to come. The fear and anxiety never really go away, not really, no matter how much I let my libido overcome my good sense, and it makes it hard to let go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then Catra starts to flick her tongue and bob her head </span>
  <em>
    <span>just so, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and makes just the perfect, needy little noise as I crush her soft lips between my body and her fangs with another harsh slam of my hips, and I feel it start to happen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let it all melt away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is for me. I can have this. I’m allowed to have this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think I try to pretend, as I’m coming hard into Catra’s mouth, that I’m still in control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I say </span>
  <em>
    <span>good girl</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re so good </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even as I know I’m unravelling, even as I can feel the vulnerability of my position like it’s one big open wound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I open my eyes at one point and am immediately overwhelmed by the sight of Catra with her wrists bound behind her, brows furrowed, face buried against me, ears pressed forward towards me like she’s desperate not to miss a single sound I make or word I utter even as she’s completely immersed in me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I allow myself to come, but I don’t allow myself the luxury of floating in it or lingering too long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as I’m capable of standing, I’m up and dragging Catra by the hair towards the wall with the metal rings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re so good,” I murmur, yanking her into position. “You think I’m going to let you do that without making you feel everything I feel ten times over? Hm?” I wrench her arms up, clip them to the rings - she cries out; that glisten of blood on her lip is… fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She’s so gorgeous, so hot when she’s wrecked or about to be wrecked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whimpers, and something in me says </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember safe words. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re good to keep going?” I ask. I slow the intensity of my touch, I brush her sweaty hair back off her forehead. She leans into my hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she gasps, eyes distant, glazed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You still want me to hit you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she confirms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I say, and stroke her face with a thumb. “Tell me if it’s too much.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods. I step back a moment to admire her, strung up to the wall and covered from chin to nose with my own glistening slick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gorgeous,” I say, stroking her thigh, and she squirms and keens. “You’re gorgeous. And now I’m going to reward you for being such a good girl.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I retrieve my own belt from where I left it at the corner of the room, scavenged from my locker in lieu of any better toy. I clasp the buckle in my hand and wrap the excess around my fist, to make sure I’m not hitting her with anything made of metal, and then get in nice and close to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My first strike takes her across the thigh. She jumps and whimpers and strains against the wrist cuffs; it makes her chest expand beautifully, makes her eyes go distant and hazy. She must be worked up. I know for a fact she can take a lot more than this without complaint. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hit her again, against the other thigh, and her reaction isn’t quite as extreme. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There you go,” I murmur. She makes a throaty little noise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I run my hand against her leg, and then I hit her again. She whimpers, so I hit again, harder, and then she </span>
  <em>
    <span>gasps. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I back up a little, to give myself more room, give a few experimental soft slaps of the belt against her inner thighs, and then start to match the club music, flicking my wrist into each strike. Her whines and whimpers and shocked little inhales of pain are a music of their own, a kind I think I could listen to for the rest of my life and never get sick of. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I count them out, more for fun than because I have any kind of target I’m trying to hit, and at thirty I notice the glisten between her legs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Turned on, aren’t you?” I purr, feeling distinctly smug. She makes a noise - she hasn’t said any real words since we started - and I press close, running my hand from her hip up to her chest. With this encouragement, she manages to squeak a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” I correct firmly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” she says, swallowing hard, squashing her eyes shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grasp a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>pinch. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She gasps and her eyes fly open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look at me when you acknowledge me,” I say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she blurts, forcing her eyes up to mine before they drop again. “Yes ma’am.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I say, and then release her nipple. She huffs, shakes, breathes hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fuck, she’s so beautiful. I want to hurt her and then be the one to make her feel better. I want to wrap her in my arms and tell her how good she’s been. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, I stroke my index finger along the length of her, feel the way she trembles as I glide just that edge of friction against her clit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to come for me?” I murmur, pressing close again, slipping one hand behind her ass so there’s nowhere for her to escape to. Her hips twitch in my grasp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please,” she keens. That’s not quite an answer to my question, but I don’t mind. I stroke harder, applying more pressure with my hand as I rub against her, keeping her trapped. She gasps, moans my name. The sound of it on her lips crackles through me like electricity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make her come like that for me, strung up against the wall of the Salineas dungeon and still stinging from her beating, and then I take her down and lead her, staggering, to one of the little curtained ‘privacy’ alcoves. We crawl inside, squashy pleather yielding under our knees as we claim the open spot for ourselves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We lie back - I leave the curtain open - and she settles against me, into my arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I slip my hand down again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I ask a question - </span>
  <em>
    <span>can I - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I make her come for me again, held against me, my legs securely wrapped around hers, head cradled in one arm until I roll over, pin her under me, push my fingers inside her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the third time I make her come, she pushes my hand away and then I just hold her, stroking her hair, pressing our sweaty foreheads together, feeling her breathe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything seems to shift into slow motion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rise and fall of her chest is slow; the vibration of the music is fuzzy, distant, gentle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m looking down at her when she opens her eyes to look back at me, and her delicate eyelids seem to lift with such an impossible lethargy that is rivalled only by the luxurious, leisurely pace set by the smile the crawls across her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she starts to purr.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cup her face in my hand, and she tilts into it, and I tenderly stroke her lip where she split it open on my pelvic bone from me fucking her face earlier in the evening, and I think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I kiss her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She kisses back, kisses with the bated breath of the moment between strikes, kisses with the taut chemistry of the instant we find each other at a club and lock eyes, kisses with cautious new kindness of our aftercare and with the raw desire of our earlier fucking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So much of me untangles at that touch, and so much more is instantly complicated and tugged and ripped ragged as I lose myself into how desperately I’ve wanted this, and all I can think is this:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Either I’m going to break her heart, or she’s going to break mine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no in between. There’s no happy ending to this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I can’t bring myself to care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So I hold her, and I kiss her again.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<h2>Intermission</h2><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“This way,” Bow says, his back stiff and his face neutral.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora, you don’t have to be here,” Glimmer says again. “You don’t have to hear this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Adora says, through gritted teeth, “I do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t argue with her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow leads her into the little room, and the three of them come to a stop in front of the big pane of one-way glass that looks into the interrogation room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Through the glass, Catra looks up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks exhausted. Resigned. There’s something in her eyes that speaks of a kind of defeat that runs so deep it pumps through the veins. It’s there in the tired, sad smile she quirks in their direction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow frowns. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She shouldn’t be able to see or hear us from this side of the glass,” he says. Catra doesn’t look in his direction - doesn’t take her eyes away from where Adora is standing. Her hands flex, bunching and relaxing again in the unbreakable energy arc restraints that are keeping her wrists against the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora doesn’t say anything, but her jaw gets tighter, her nostrils flare, she stands a little straighter. Bow and Glimmer exchange a look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure - </span>
  </em>
  <span>“ Glimmer starts to say - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Adora snaps. At the word, Catra’s ears twitch forward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s eyes track the movement; she stares into the interrogation room, raises a hand to silence Bow when it looks like he’s about to say something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Catra leans back into her likely quite uncomfortable metal seat as far as the cuffs will allow her to, levels that battered smile at the glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Adora,” she croaks. She sounds about thirty years older; any trace of confidence or playfulness is long gone. “Want me to wink if I can hear you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora says nothing. Her jaw clenches tighter; she twitches towards the door, like she’s thinking about storming out again, but then she gingerly lowers herself with aching, flinching care into a seat and crosses her arms over her chest, waiting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow goes back out the door they came through, then a moment later he appears in the interrogation room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra doesn’t even look up when he enters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, she keeps her gaze steady on the one-way glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” she says, soft and broken, “I’m sorry. For everything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer flicks a nervous little look at Adora. It seems too soon to force her to confront this. They shouldn’t have let Adora come listen in on the interrogation. But she deserves to know, deserves the answers to all the questions she undoubtedly has.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And besides, they wouldn’t be in this mess if Bow and Glimmer had just fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Adora when she’d come to them and said that Catra was dangerous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said that you would tell us everything,” Bow says. “We got you out of there, as promised. It’s time to talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Catra sighs, jerking against the restraints like she reflexively tried to rub her face before remembering the situation she’s in. She looks at her wrists, then looks back up at the glass again - looks at Adora again. “I know there isn’t a way to fix this. But at least I can give you the truth. The whole truth. I owe you that much.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<h2>Part Two: Catra</h2><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I huff impatiently as the entrance to the Crimson Wastes finally slides open and I slip inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Took you fucking long enough,” I snap, once the door is shut behind me. The club looks remarkably mundane emptied out of patrons with all the day cycle lights on. I push past the bulky form of the Old Etherian who opened the door for me and go to the bar to steal a bottle of juice. “So? What’s the word?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So impatient. What, no friendly hello?” They say, flashing me a fanged smile through Huntara’s rough old face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cut the crap,” I mutter, in a bad mood already in anticipation of whatever stupid shit has come down the line. I wish she’d just leave me alone and let me run things my own way instead of constantly insisting on interfering, even after all these years of proving myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a scoff, long silver hair shifts to gold and thick burly muscles and purple skin melt away to lean and green. Double Trouble flips their hair and settles down on the bar stool next to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shadow Weaver says you’re taking too long,” they inform me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, big fucking surprise.” I roll my eyes at them, take a gulp of juice. “She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> this was a tricky assignment. That’s why she sent me. I’ve explained about a thousand times to her that this isn’t like convincing some backwater mining overseer to accept a bribe. I need more time. She has to come off station with me willingly. Once we get her out of the Whispering System, we’re free and clear to use as much force as we need to, but until then, this is a delicate mission and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be rushed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you don’t need to explain that to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Double Trouble chuckles. “That girl is more paranoid than a Feleuri in a room full of rocking chairs, if you’ll forgive the expression.” I glare at them - I know they choose their words carefully to provide the maximum amount of annoyance to me at all times - and they smirk back at me, pleased by my obvious aggravation. “That said, there </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a limit to how long my cover will last. This old brute has been on the station for two decades. Eventually I’ll make a mistake around someone who’s known her long enough to get suspicious. You know I hate long term identity theft jobs. There are just so many limitations, it’s impossible to really get </span>
  <em>
    <span>creative</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the role.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble is absolutely invaluable as a covert agent, but they can be insufferable sometimes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You getting bored is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> my problem. You need to do a better job of playing the wise old mentor and convince Adora she can trust me. That’s the only reason you’re here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> reason,” they drawl. I choose not to engage with this. They know the suggestion that Shadow Weaver still feels the need to send someone to keep an eye on me is guaranteed to rankle. Maybe if I deny them a reaction they’ll stop fucking slipping in snide comments about it. It’s not like they’re riddled with loyalty to the cause either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, whatever the case, you need to do better. I’m putting on the fucking performance of my life here. I told you she fucking washed me head to toe before she’d fuck me the first time, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you certainly </span>
  <em>
    <span>did,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Double Trouble cackles, draping themself happily across the bar. “How </span>
  <em>
    <span>droll. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ve certainly got to hand it to her, she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to use her head. The operative word being trying, of course, since she’s still knowingly sleeping with an undercover agent.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s starting to doubt her gut,” I insist. “I’m making progress. But she’s fucking attentive. I need Shadow Weaver to leave me alone and let me work. The more she insists on sending messages and trying to interfere, the more likely it is she’ll blow my cover, with how closely Adora has the station administration watching me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s worried you’re going to get a little too comfortable in this fake little life you’ve built for yourself,” they say, inspecting their nails. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, like I could just stay here? That isn’t going to happen. You can tell her that word for word. I know what’s on the line if I fail. I’m not going to forget. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> let me forget.” I stand up, the juice - suddenly unappealing - discarded on the bartop. “I’ll get the job done, okay. I’m getting closer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are, are you?” They sound skeptical. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I smirk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am,” I say. “She let me kiss her tonight.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Brava,” they say, their tone surprised and impressed, but in a deeply condescending way. “Perhaps someday you’ll even be as good of an actor as yours truly. Just a word of warning, from me to you, no Shadow Weaver involved - be careful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I snort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think she’s a threat, honestly. She’s shrivelled up, and I’m pretty sure whatever the Eternians did to her was a one-time thing, a flashbang that wasn’t meant to be reused. She told me herself that her survival was a fluke.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t what I meant, kitten,” Double Trouble purrs, crossing one ankle over the other. “I mean be careful with your heart. We wouldn’t want you falling in love while you’re trying to make this girl fall in love with </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel the twitch of displeasure show on my face, rein it in as quick as I can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to worry about that. She’s just an uptight meathead who thinks she’s more important than she actually is, like every other Force Captain I’ve ever met.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh,” they say, and I suppress a shudder at their piercing stare. “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>a relief.” They sound completely unconvinced. “Anyways, give me your report so I can get it put together for the old spooky wench. I’m sure she’s eager to know what you’ve learned about Project She-Ra from the way the inside of Force Captain Adora’s mouth tastes.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes me choke out a laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. Maybe they’re not completely intolerable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, their ‘warning’ is an annoying little barb I’m still trying to decipher long after I finish making my report for the week. I’ve never had any problems with developing sympathy for my targets before. What makes them think this time is any different? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not different, I decide, walking back to Scorpia’s place with my hands in my pockets and my mind back on the Black Garnet. This is just a mission like any other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s absolutely no way I’m going to fall in love.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I slap my forearm as my wrist chip starts to buzz an obnoxious wake-up sequence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I ignore the chipper </span>
  <em>
    <span>good morning, sleepyhead</span>
  </em>
  <span> I hear from above me, groan, and roll off Scorpia’s couch and onto the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whoa!” She yelps (as if I didn’t mean to do that) and rushes over with her claws outstretched (as if her big dumb pincers would be more help than hindrance). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morning,” I mutter, holding up my hands to ward off her incoming kindness. I suppress a small smile at the sight of her in a dumb apron. “You just get back in from work?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yep! Making some dinner for me, breakfast for you if you want some!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll pass,” I say, flipping over and getting to my feet. I crack my back and consider the shitty little box she lives in, the shitty little box </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> live in, and decide it’s at least friendlier than a troop carrier bunk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have work today?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yup.” I grasp one ankle, pull it up to beside my head, and grunt at the stretch in my hips. “Before you ask what I’m doing today, the answer is that a) I don’t know, and b) almost certainly drawing flowers.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, it is, you know, sort of like, her specialty right?” I don’t need to look at her to know she’s blushing. It’s cute. Maybe I can do her the small favor of setting her up with a nice girl before I bail on her again. It might be good for her to have a girlfriend to console her after I vanish. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart clenches with an unfamiliar twinge of guilt. I wish Scorpia weren’t part of this mission. I wish Shadow Weaver hadn’t been completely right that it’d have been impossible to avoid her seeing me on the station for a long term undercover operation like this, and that I might as well lie to her up front and use her as part of my cover if I was going to have to lie to her eventually anyways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s good to see her alive and well, happy in spite of her menial job and her tiny quarters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I would’ve wanted better for her, for us, if we’d actually escaped for real. But at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> content, because that’s all that ultimately matters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, is it petty of me to wish she’d done something more interesting with her freedom than become a dock worker and discover online board game simulations? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I paid for this life of hers with my own. The least she could do is make the most of it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. That isn’t her fault.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m going to hook her up with my idiot boss. They’ll love each other. Be good for each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I can’t be here to try to convince Scorpia she deserves better than basic subsistence, maybe Perfuma can do that for me. She’d probably do a better job of it anyways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What would </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> know about the kind of life that’s actually worth living?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You going out again tonight?” Scorpia asks, back at her kitchen nook and gingerly attempting to open the flap of a packaged box of dehydrated something-or-other with the tip of her claw. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably,” I say. I watch her struggle with the box as long as I can tolerate it before I give a frustrated scoff and march over. “Give me that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Some things never change, eh Wildcat?” She chuckles, handing the box over and letting me neatly break the seal along the top and open it for her. “You’ve always looked out for me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not always,” I say, feeling another, older pang of guilt. From how close we’re standing, I can see the battered dents in her carapace and scars on her face from the many, many times I failed her. I couldn’t protect her from our superior officers, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many beatings I incurred to redirect their wrath - I couldn’t protect her from getting drafted to infantry, shuttled off to a distant deployment where she would be alone, visibly different from everybody else, vulnerable. “We were supposed to stick together, us One-Offs.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The comment slips out of my mouth softer and sadder than I intended it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t an apology in words, but Scorpia, of all people, will know it for one in spirit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles down at me, drapes an arm around my shoulders. The smile pulls at a long scar that runs through her lower lip - it’s the one Octavia had the fucking balls to give her, the one I took her eye out for. I wonder if it’d have healed cleaner if old Sergeant Cobalt had gotten Scorp medical attention instead of sneering that she ought to learn to defend herself better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t live in the past, Catra,” Scorpia says, and I feel my ears going back on their own. “We’re out of there now. What happened to us wasn’t our fault. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasn’t your fault. It was never your job to protect me.” She squeezes my shoulders in one quick, affectionate side-hug before taking the box back and tipping into the bowl she has waiting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes it was. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes it is. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If there’s anything in this fucking shithole of a galaxy that’s worth protecting, it’s this battered old bug and her gentle soul. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel my resolve strengthen, my bitter exhaustion give way to fresh determination. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to die.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Between Adora and I, we’ve got enough blood on our hands to drown this backwater space station a dozen times over. Our lives aren’t worth shit. They’re worse less than shit, a bold red negative in the uncaring balance sheet of the universe’s misery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trading Adora’s life for Scorpia’s? It’s a fucking no-brainer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I’ve wasted enough time already. Shadow Weaver wants me to hurry up? It’s time to pull out the heavy artillery. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s time to get vulnerable.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After the kiss, things proceed at a steady clip. I can tell Adora is still suspicious, but at long last her desire outweighs her caution, and I’m able to make inroads every time we meet up at the club. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Is it desire, or is it loneliness? Heh. I guess I can sympathize with the way paranoia and loneliness always seem to go hand in hand. Has Force Captain Adora ever had to spend a night alone, before Etheria Station?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We become regulars at the noodle shop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She places her orders with increasing confidence while I watch the pleasing flex of her flashing hands while she signs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Always, always, she orders the extra egg. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each time I lure her into going a little further, I give her the space to see that nothing bad happens as a result. When our mouths meet, there’s no poison on my lips. The same is true when her hunger brings her face between my thighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I come down her face and she resurfaces, victorious, my beautiful defeat glistening on her chin and neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And here I’d assumed my memories of her mouth being talented were just the inexperience of youth, with nobody else to compare it to. Turns out she’s just as good as I remember her being, if not better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, I can’t get her to suggest fucking outside of Salineas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is, honestly, smarter than I expected her to be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If if weren’t for Etheria Station’s intense scrutiny of their dock traffic, I’d have tried and failed to knock Adora out for quick extrication maybe thirty, forty times by now. She turns down drinks I offer after I’ve sipped them, she spent months avoiding me having any sort of access to her mouth, she doesn’t trust food ordered from a place I recommend - all ways I’ve successfully snagged targets in the past, meticulously deflected by a woman I’d expected to be just one of a thousand meatheaded grunts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, sure, maybe I’ve developed a bit of grudging respect for her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that won’t stop me from following through on what I told Shadow Weaver I’d deliver. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora should be grateful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m a hell of a last meal, after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m sprawled across her chest, making myself purr, when I decide the timing is right to broach the subject, to up the stakes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand is in my hair, and I turn to press a kiss to her palm, enjoying the brush of her rough skin against my soft lips. She strokes a thumb across my cheek bone; I exhale through my nose so that the breath grazes across her knuckles, hot and suggestive, and keep my mouth pressed into her hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hear her heart pick up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you like that?” she murmurs, rough and heated. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly against my face, hand an impromptu gag. I whimper, and her gentle grip goes completely slack. I turn in her grip, rub the bridge of my nose against her wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - uh - yeah,” I stammer. My nervous excitement is only half faked. All my best performances are grounded in truth, and this display of trust is going to have to be as authentic as possible to convince her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If my heart is clipping along a little faster than normal, it’s certainly not because I have stage fright. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She presses, tracing the edge of my hairline with a barely-there touch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I swallow. Huff. Lean into the reassuring contact, like I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> the reassurance, to say what I’m about to say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gags are… uh… kind of complicated for me, emotionally,” I say. I wait a beat, then: “Honestly, I’m kind of glad you never asked me to wear one to be able to do stuff with you. I might not have been able to agree to it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let that sit for a while, let her mull that over. She’s not a woman of many words, at least not when she’s sober, and she runs her fingers through my hair once, twice, three times before she replies:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Complicated in a good way, or in a bad way?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh at her; it’s an honest laugh that I don’t have to fake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Complicated in a complicated way,” I say. I snuggle into her chest, tucking my head under her chin, and she wraps her arms around me. I notice, absently, that she’s started to get some muscle back on her arms. She’s been slowly but surely regaining all that weight she lost between vanishing at Krytis and reappearing six months later on Etheria Station. I lower my voice before I continue; this is for her ears only. I want her to feel special that I’m sharing it with her, but also, I want to avoid fucking Double Trouble hearing it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They give me enough guff as it is - the </span>
  <em>
    <span>last</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing they need is more ammunition for when they get in the mood to psychoanalyze me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When you were a kid, did the Sergeants beat you whenever they were annoyed with you, or whenever you got in trouble or broke a rule or whatever?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Adora says, “All the time.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not like they used to beat us, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I want to say, bitterness curdling in my chest. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure the One-Offs were given </span>
  <em>
    <span>special</span>
  </em>
  <span> attention. I can’t imagine an officer breaking Adora’s arm for talking back one too many times.Can’t imagine her sweet, curious blue eyes ringed with black, swollen shut because she dared to ask for more rations at mealtime.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I don’t say that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What I say is:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They used to have a hard time disciplining me. When I was little. When I didn’t understand that it would be better if I just let it happen. I used to fight back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel Adora still beneath me. Her returning muscle mass grows taut, unhappy. But she doesn’t interrupt, only strokes my hair in a stiff, awkward way that I think, endearingly, is meant to be soothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I used to bite,” I say. “So they had a muzzle made.” The anger and humiliation flow through me and spill into the words without prompting. I don’t need to pretend. Not for this. “I would know a beating was coming whenever I saw it in their hands. Sometimes they’d hide it from me until the last second. Sometimes they made sure I saw it, on purpose.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My throat works rapidly as I try to swallow down the genuine panic. Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is worth it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is worth it to get Shadow Weaver off my back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is worth it to get this horrible fucking mission over with and get off this station.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is worth it to protect Scorpia. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, uh. Having stuff on my face, having my mouth restricted in particular, is… y’know, a little intense.” I heave a shaky laugh, risk a glance up at Adora. She’s regarding me thoughtfully with those eyes of hers, with that sharp, haunted gaze that always burns with the intensity of a firefight. For once, there’s no lingering suspicion in them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something else. Something… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something, I realize with a jolt, that reminds me of Scorpia.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Caring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t think about Scorpia right now. I can’t think about how much she’d hate this, hate what I’m doing to this grizzled, tormented defector who occasionally reminds me of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I press my face back into Adora’s chest and take a steadying breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Focus.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Focus on the mission. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyways uh, that’s - that’s the bad part of the complicated. The good… and, honestly, kind of confusing part of the complicated, is that it freaks me out but it also really, really turns me on, at the same time? They sort of, uh. Feed into each other. I don’t know if you have any things that are kind of like that, but. Muzzles are... ”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I give a little shudder, curl tighter into a ball.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Intense. Like I said. It’s a reflexive fear reaction, but in a kinky setting, the fear is… kind of hot?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stop there, deciding I don’t want to monologue - I want to draw Adora into this exchange, want to make her feel part of it and not just like I’m rambling at her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m almost a little surprised - almost a little impressed - when her hand finds the base of my ear and starts to rub there, and the tension reflexively eases out of my body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, it feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Has she noticed that’s a guaranteed way to physically comfort me, or was it a lucky guess? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let myself melt just a little bit. It takes the edge off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you actually tried it?” She asks. Huh. Another point for her intuition. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I admit. “Even just the idea of it gets me, uh. You know. A little worked up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to try it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There we go. That’s what I’ve been waiting for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I admit breathily, pulling back, risking eye contact again. “Are you offering?” She looks down at me and her hands fall still, not stroking or scratching or rubbing, just holding me so she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>look. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” She asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It scares me,” I confess quickly. “I don’t think I could do much, just - maybe just put it on and sit for a bit and then take it off again, definitely no impact play or sex or anything at first. I think - “ I flick my eyes away and then back up again, trying for something between bashful but determined to advocate for myself. “I think I’d need, uh, a lot of reassurance? While I had it on?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Adora’s face softens, it’s a subtle thing. It’s like looking for the first edge of spring on a mountainside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I see it now. She softens. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’d want me to tell you that you’re a good girl,” she whispers, and I’m glad of the low volume of her voice because I don’t think I could bear Double Trouble overhearing the intimacy of it. The needy reaction of my body, surely visible from across the club, is bad enough: I nod two rapid, wanton jerks of my head, then lean into her hand so hard I see her deltoids pop into sudden definition to keep her arm steady against me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could do that,” she says, and then, a little uncertainty, “If you’re sure you trust me with something like this.” She sounds guilty, like she thinks she’s unworthy of this trust. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> her to feel the urge to be worthy of if. Want her to be extra attentive, extra cautious with me, extra protective. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For one thing, I’m fucking sticking my neck out, putting my genuine emotional and psychological wellbeing into her lap like this to try to move things along a little faster. I know I’m risking a full on breakdown in the middle of the Crimson Wastes, fucking around with this old phobia of mine, but I can’t just fake something like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not with Adora. Something tells me she’d be able to sense the difference. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I trust you,” I say, holding her gaze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a lie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t trust anybody.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel a brief moment of panic as she studies me, scrutinizing my face as the falsehood hangs in the air between us. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But if she senses the deception on some innate level, she chooses to ignore her gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leans in and kisses me; I kiss back, and I let my fear and my excitement and my edge of uncertainty flick at her lips and linger on her tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is so fucking stupid. Since when am I the kind of operative who gets impatient, who takes needless risks, who puts her own safety on the line instead of just going slow and steady and letting the plan unfurl at its natural pace?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A rough hand cups my jaw, holding me steady, offering stability and wrapping me in a grip that whispers </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s okay</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I understand. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Since Adora, apparently. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not. I’m not fucking ready.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m terrified. I’m horny. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m a damn professional, one of the best there is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I’m not ready, I’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> myself be ready. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I’m ready.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” Adora says, touching my neck, pulling me close by my leather chest harness, kissing me. The familiar smell of her arousal seems to encompass me. It’s Adora, </span>
  <em>
    <span>magnified, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like that first whiff of a just-uncorked bottle of old booze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t just the way she smells that gives away how much she’s excited for this; her dominant side roars through her kiss, hard and unyielding, demanding, biting, excited, tense. Sensually, not exactly the best kind of kiss, but the context of that demanding clash makes it fucking hot as hell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls away, breathing hard from her excitement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Does it excite her because she knows it’s dangerous for me? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I know my vulnerability is a turn-on for her.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or does it excite her because it’s a sign of my trust? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I know my </span>
  <em>
    <span>willingness</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a turn-on for her too.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thoughts die as she moves her right hand out from behind her back, and I see it swinging there from her loose fist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Black leather straps. Silver buckles. Rubber bit. Leather mouth covering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The muzzle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My </span>
  </em>
  <span>muzzle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My pulse goes crazy. My ears go flat. I feel my tail start to flick in agitation and arousal, feel the pinprick stampede down my neck and arms that means my fur is standing on end. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And through it all, a sudden bonfire crackles to life in my core. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kneel,” Adora says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice is stern.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to hurt you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fight or flight kicks in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grapple with it, with the adrenaline that rushes my system and yells at me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>run. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s not going to hurt me. We negotiated. We made a plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to hurt me. She promised. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kneel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes more effort than I’d realized it would. I’m starting to think maybe this was a bad idea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I’m not going to tap out yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can make it stop any time I need to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Fuck, I should stop her now. This is already too much, the sight of it hanging from her hand beside her legs like that. On my knees, I’m at the perfect height that it reminds me so much, so much - )</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” Adora murmurs, and the shock of it pulls a soft little sob out of me before I can choke it back down. “Hey. You okay? We don’t have to keep going.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I manage to say, keeping my eyes on her feet. I don’t think I could handle her stare right now. “I’m - I’m okay. It’s just a lot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Adora says, and then hesitates. “Just remember, tap any part of me if you want to stop. Or even just make a noise, or gesture, or something - if it sounds like you need it off, I’m going to take it off. Okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I agree, appreciative of her uncharacteristically gentle tone. Normally once she’s in top mode she’s all bite and no tenderness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She reaches out with her left hand and runs her fingers sweetly through my hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” she says, massaging at the base of my ear, and now I know for sure she’s doing it on purpose. I unclench my jaw a little at the touch, at the praise, and try to find that happy floating place where, for a few stolen minutes, I can pretend I know how to trust, pretend I know how to surrender, pretend I know how to stop fighting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There we go.” Adora’s voice is a surprisingly effective counterweight to my fear. My superior officers never spoke to me like this, softly and approvingly, not even when I was little. I risk a look up again at the waiting muzzle, and my breath catches. Adora sees me looking, evidently, because she says: “Do you want it?” The tone of her question is... lilting. Sexually charged, almost teasing, almost playful, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fundamentally</span>
  </em>
  <span> laced with approval. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like she’s rewarding me for looking at it with positive attention. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My body thrills with delight even as my pride rebels. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t answer her, just breathe through the overwhelming experience of my emotions and the constant fluttering of panic and the bone-deep desire to take it and be good and be rewarded for being good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her left hand is still in my hair, her thumb still kneading therapeutic circles at the spot where my ear meets my jaw. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be a good girl and show me you want it,” she says, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m squirming at her tone, I’m pulsing with need. I look up, up at her eyes - the muzzle is in my peripherals, still hanging there like an everpresent promise of something to come - and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and somehow that makes my clit </span>
  <em>
    <span>throb</span>
  </em>
  <span> as effectively as a smirk would have. Her expression is one of patience, not wickedness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to make you mine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>those eyes say </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re already mine, and I know it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel myself slip into submission as surely as ice melting and mixing into an unattended drink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Inextricable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you want your muzzle,” she says, gentle and sure, “you have to open your mouth for me. If you ask for it, I’ll give it to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I whimper, exhale hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at her, and she watches me with that smile, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>waits. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fear powers arousal within me, a churning chemical process converting my terror to desperate need as quickly as my brain can produce it. My body </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span> with it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let my eyes fall back on the bundle of leather straps and buckles hanging from her hand. My chest stutters with each short, sharp breath I take; I clench again and again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora is waiting for me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Waiting for me to say yes to it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Waiting for me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask </span>
  </em>
  <span>for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lick my lips nervously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Part them - linger there at that half measure for a while, my breath gusting in and out of the narrow gap as I find that part of myself that just wants to be good</span>
  <em>
    <span> - just wants to be loved - just wants to be worthy - just wants to be protected - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I open my mouth slowly, without looking away from the muzzle, and then, when it’s open as I can get it, I glance up at Adora.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know my eyes are begging. They must be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because she’s smirking now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” she says, and with my mouth open the noise I make in reply is shamelessly needy sounding. My panting is already starting to dry out my tongue; I feel saliva pooling behind my front teeth. There’s a tiny part of me that wonders if other people are watching, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her long enough to find out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora takes the muzzle in both hands, adjusts her grip on it, holds it in front of me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I inhale and smell the leather of the straps and the rubber of the bit and the sweat under her armpits and the dampness of both her underwear and mine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I obediently keep my mouth open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Such a good girl,” Adora murmurs, and then she presses the bit of the muzzle between my teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fresh panic surges through me, followed by the twin dragon of my taut arousal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I force my mouth to relax around the bit, allow my fangs to settle into it, taste the bitter rubber against my tongue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can do this. I can do this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” she says again, holding the mouthpiece gently but firmly in place with one hand, running the other one through my hair. She tilts my chin up, forces me to meet her eyes. “Nod if you want to keep going.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod, trembling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shifts so that she’s behind me, and then the straps are going back and pulling tight, securing the bit between my teeth and the leather over my mouth, below my nose and covering my chin. When the strap that runs between my eyes comes snug against my forehead, the terror really starts to set in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too much. It’s too much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fear is - it’s - it’s visceral, it’s automatic, it’s baked into every one of my atoms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My claws unsheath. Tears pool in my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The buckles are coming closed, and it’s about to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>on, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the buckles don’t close. They go slack, and then the bit is being gently pried out from between my teeth, and Adora is pulling me onto the sofa and stroking my hair and I’m crying into her chest, shaking - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m such a fucking idiot,” I babble, gripping at her shirt. “I can’t, I can’t - it’s - “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” she says, over and over again. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a while she sits me up, opens a bottle of water, and presses it into my hands. I drink urgently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I gasp, after swallowing. I blink through more tears, wipe them on the back of my arm. “I knew - I knew it would be a lot, I - fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be that bad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to apologize,” she says, frowning, puzzled. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner that it was too much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault. I didn’t tap out, and you asked, and - you did everything right, it wasn’t your fault.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault either,” she says, gravely, and I know she isn’t just talking about tonight. I feel so fucking raw that the assurance makes me start to cry again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t know how long Adora holds me while I tremble and talk myself back down from the edge I’d been backing myself up against. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she does; she holds me, and she lets me cry, and she doesn’t comment on the fact that my claws have poked several holes into her shirt by the time I’ve stopped shaking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the end of the night, she startles me by asking to tap chips and trade contact codes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want to be able to check in on you tomorrow morning,” she says, by way of explanation. I bite my lip, holding back a surprised smile that would have been one part sincere pleasure and nine parts </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy shit, this night wasn’t a totally botched attempt after all, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then I get up on my tiptoes and kiss the worried line between her eyebrows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It makes her laugh, a flustered, sheepish noise that seems out of place on her gaunt, scarred warrior’s face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” I say, and we ‘shake hands’, gripping each other by the elbow and pressing our chips briefly together to forge the link for direct messaging. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After Adora heads home, Double Trouble wanders over, their smirk looking more like a wise, knowing grin on Huntara’s stolen face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Truly, a masterful performance,” they murmur in a low voice. “Why, almost too good to be true. I hadn’t realized you were so skilled of an actor. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought that was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> panic attack.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I tilt my face away from them in annoyance, shrug, gulp back some more water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. It got the job done.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It certainly did.” They drape an arm over my shoulders in a way obviously intended to appear comforting and friendly to anybody watching. “Good thing she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> ready to comfort you and take care of you. If that hadn’t been a completely artificial little meltdown, well, in your shoes I might even have been a little grateful.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’d shove them off of me if that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” I whisper, plastering a smile on my face as if I’m saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> for some sagely advice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As you wish,” they sing-song, and push up off the bar with a grunt, slipping back into character. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My chip gives a little pulse; I bring up the message. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s from Adora.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let me know when you get home. I’ll be awake for a while if you want to talk tonight. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I finish my bottle of water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I tap the message away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I fucking hate this job sometimes. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The music is too loud, but that’s okay. It’s always too loud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It overwhelms my senses, makes touch and taste and smell and sight feel both duller and sharper all at once by comparison, like I’m high on something, like I’m submerged in sound thick enough to be a liquid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I fucking love it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My body answers the call of the music, twisting gleefully along the gliding direction of the melody, starting and stopping and pulsing to the constant percussion of the beat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel Adora watching me, like she always does. I preen under the attention, hold her eyes from across the dance floor every now and then, drinking in the flinty flash of her hungry stare, enjoying the strong shape of her knuckles as she holds her glass of liquor to her lips without drinking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The performance is for her, in part, but it’s also for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I’m not eyefucking her across the club, I lose myself in the beat and just enjoy myself. I can feel more eyes than just Adora’s on me. I put my arms up over my head, sway my shoulders, my hips, flick my tail, and smirk to myself, knowing I’m an object of desire, knowing people want me, if only to fuck me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Girl’s gotta get her ego boosts where she can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Strangers brush up against me, some bolder than others, some more naked. I entertain the odd approach and dance close with a few women, never staying with anyone longer than twenty to thirty seconds. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So when I feel a hand on my shoulder, at first I think it’s just another would-be dance partner. I don’t sense the menace immediately, addled as my senses are by the crush of bodies and the overpowering volume of the music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn around and find myself face to face with a hulking Iwan - male, from the shape of the head spines and brow ridges. I flash him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry, not interested</span>
  </em>
  <span> smile and start to slip away to another end of the dance floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His arm snaps out and grabs my wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That expression I assumed was a smouldering look of desire turns out to be a glower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not desire. Hatred. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Funny how I’m so used to getting those two mixed up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; The fuck do you think you’re doing here, huh? &gt; He growls in Hstraka. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I know you?” I yell over the music, pulling away from him. His fingers, each as thick as three of mine and plated in tough green scales, tighten around my wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Horde scum, &gt; He spits, yanking me. &lt; You think you can just walk around here, dancing with my people like you don’t have our blood on your hands? I should gut you and make you eat your own innards. &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say, furrowing my brow into confusion, “I don’t understand?” I’m not scared of this big brute. I just have to bide my time until security notices I’m being physically harassed and then this guy will earn himself a lifetime ban from Club Salineas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Horde! Scum! &gt; He repeats, raising his voice like this will help me to comprehend. People on the dance floor are starting to shy away from us, trying to avoid the altercation. Of course nobody is standing up for me - this dude is the biggest person here by a longshot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jabs a blunt claw at my exposed Horde brand to punctuate his words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hm. Maybe his size isn’t the only reason nobody is helping me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh well. I can get out of this on my own. I’ve never needed help from anybody else to get out of tense situations. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me go,” I say, changing my expression from confusion to anger. I bare my teeth at him, flashing my fangs in the universal signal for </span>
  <em>
    <span>back the fuck off, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but the teeth are a feint; behind my back, I unsheath the claws of my free hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s about to get some </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> strong incentive to release me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snarls back at me, and I tense for the strike, and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You signed a code of conduct agreement when you came into the club,” Adora says sternly, appearing at my side. She taps the big Iwan’s forearm and looks up at him reproachfully. “This is a clear violation of her consent. She’s asked you to stop touching her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Stay out of this, softskin, &gt; he rumbles, unimpressed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m inclined to agree with him. I had this handled just fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Last chance,” she says, sudden danger in her eyes. She inhales, and even though I know it isn’t possible, it feels like she’s the one looking down at the Iwan, not the other way around. “Walk away.” And then, with a clear, violent punctuation to the shape of each word, she signs in Hstraka: </span>
  <b>Get the fuck away from her, or I’ll peel you open like a ripe shed and then break every last one of your teeth. Clear? </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Iwan’s hold on my wrist pops open in surprise, and he takes a step back from Adora, visibly alarmed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I don’t blame him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been so long since the hotel, I’d forgotten how genuinely terrifying it is to be threatened by Adora when she’s pushed to aggression. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; You - &gt; He starts to snarl, but Adora steps right up into his space, shoulders squared, chin lifted, unflinching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Try me, hatchling, </b>
  <span>she signs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though he’s nearly twice her height, the Iwan cringes back. Without another word, he turns and stalks away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” I mutter reflexively. She didn’t even have to draw blood. How the fuck did she do that? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” She asks, without turning towards me. She’s still watching the Iwan go, careful not to present him with her back until she’s sure he’s gone for good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” My pride pricked, I say, “I could have handled it.” I have to raise my voice so that her weak ass ears can hear it over the music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she says calmly, without a trace of apology. She knows, the same way she knows she knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. Like she’s got the utmost of respect for my abilities. “I thought about letting you deal with it. But I figured I could make him back down without blood.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How the fuck did you even do that?” Even now, she seems like a different person - like she’s filled out, like she inhaled and somehow grew three inches. It isn’t just her usual military rigidity - it’s pride, it’s wrath, it’s confidence. It’s something different from the Adora she becomes when she tops. She even smells a little different - there’s an unusual mix of adrenaline and hormones coming off of her - or, wait - there </span>
  <em>
    <span>was, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she’s already starting to go back to normal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or was I just imagining it? It’s hard to tell, just a flash of something. Hell, I could have just gotten confused with the sudden stink of fear rolling off of the Iwan when Adora did… whatever the hell she did. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was a Force Captain for nearly a decade,” she shrugs. “I learned to deal with - “ she falters, and I suspect she doesn’t actually know the right word for the species she’s so used to lumping in under </span>
  <em>
    <span>lizardfolk,</span>
  </em>
  <span> “ - guys like him.” A neat dodge. I smirk at the back of her head; she’s still standing sentry in the middle of a dance floor, making sure we’re safe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a good sign, that she’s standing with her back to me for so long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, now that I think about it, a good sign that she rushed to my defense. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Plus I grew up with a bunch of them. You learn real quick what kind of body language escalates fights and what kind ends them before they start.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” I mutter. She might not speak or read the language, or know the right words for the various species that speak Hstraka, but growing up in a barracks surrounded by Iwans and Colubrins obviously taught her lots of things my Covert Ops training and cultural study didn’t teach me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I snort a little laugh before I can stop myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s hard not to be amused by Shadow Weaver’s vaunted brilliance having big gaping holes in it. It’s always fucking funny seeing her fail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think he’s gone,” Adora finally says, turning back to me, stepping in close and tilting her head to look at my wrist, checking for damage. As if she’d be able to see the bruises under my fur.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Idiot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(My grin gets bigger.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The song changes, and the novel pattern of notes reminds me that we’re still in the middle of the dance floor. The adrenaline from the encounter translates easily into a kind of giddy, light enthusiasm that’s perfect for dancing, so I catch Adora’s gaze, raise my eyebrows in invitation, and bounce my shoulders back and forth a little, the precursor to real dancing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says, looking suddenly aghast, all her Force Captain confidence draining from her face. “I don’t - I never learned how. You don’t want me to dance, I promise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” I purr, offering her my hand, still dancing with just my shoulders, “I’ll teach you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She flushes red, and I smirk reflexively. This is my favourite part, honestly - finding ways to fluster her, figuring out what makes that stony barricade drop a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no, so I lean in close, my hips joining my shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know you want to,” I murmur into her ear, dancing against her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just going to embarrass you,” she mumbles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be stupid,” I say, taking her hands in mine. “I don’t give a fuck what anybody else thinks. Come on, Adora. Like this.” I deploy her name strategically, rolling it luxuriously in my mouth knowing she always reacts positively to hearing me say it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, like sweet, sweet clockwork, she does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her heart kicks up. Her pupils widen slightly. Her breath hitches. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blushing, she allows me to twine my fingers through hers and lift her arms - limp and shy and uncertain - and move them back and forth to the music. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Follow the beat,” I laugh, demonstrating with my own body, moving our hands wildly to pull her out of her shell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels stupid - I see it in her face - and the only solution to that is for me to act even more stupid to knock her off the delusion that there’s room for dignity on the club floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grin at her, teasing the small timid edge of a smile out of hiding, holding her eyes so there’s nowhere for her to hide, and make our movements even more exaggerated. I press our foreheads together, wiggle us, force her shoulders to sway by moving her arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is so, so bad at this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s almost cute. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I giggle, “Keep doing this with your shoulders!” And then I take her hands down, place them on my hips. Hunger enters her expression. She’s insatiable, I fucking swear. “You feel how I’m moving?” I swing my waist to the pulse of the song, pair it with my shoulders. She nods, gets a little micro-frown of concentration. “You fucking nerd,” I tease. “Just match what I’m doing. And try to relax a little!” I take my hands off of hers, leave them on my hips, and then I settle my palms on her hip bones and encourage her to move them with gentle pushes and pulls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do I do with my feet?” She asks, sounding so completely in over her head. I laugh at her again, push her hard enough on one side of her body that she has to take a shuffling step back, then pull so that she has to take one forward. It’s like training a puppy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Like that. Come on. Don’t look at your feet. Look at me.” She flicks her eyes up to me, but they go back down to her feet again almost instantly after a few more beats of her halting, awkward attempts to match my dancing. “Look at me, princess,” I demand, smirking, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> gets her attention. Her expression is one of helplessness as she jerks her gaze back up to mine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, she’s so fucking tormented and thrown off by this, it’s absolutely delicious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good!” I praise, and watch her fight to hide her pleased reaction from me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s still tense and gawky, but at least she’s loosening up just the tiniest bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn around in her arms, pressing my back to her front. She gasps, but I don’t let her stop, don’t let her lose momentum. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Despite what she may think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>in charge here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold her hands firm on my hips, press my ass into her groin, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dance. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep up, Captain,” I tease, and under the all-encompassing reek of sweat and sex and pool water, I pick up the scent of her slick. Good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I don’t think anybody’s ever made me feel as powerfully desirable as Adora does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The friction against my lower back makes my tail arch up of its own volition; with what little conscious control I have over its movement, I make sure that arch brings it right up between Adora’s legs and against her back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hear her huff in surprise, and then she hooks her chin over my shoulder, presses the sides of our faces together, and matches the movements of my body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She follows my motions like an especially clingy shadow; I raise the difficulty, force her to keep up with the rapid writhing necessary to keep time with the fast-paced techno. The tang of her sweat is just encouragement, and to her credit she doesn’t slow down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her body is hot against mine, pressed against me posessively. Her hands are greedy and demonstrative, but from my peripherals I can see her eyes are closed; she’s not worried about how this looks to other people anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grin, follow her lead, close my own eyes, and sink down into the somatic world of touch, of movement, of pressure and friction and her chest against my shoulder blades and the corner of her mouth against my cheek and her hands on my thighs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s not terrible, honestly, once she unclenches a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The song changes to a dance remix of a popular song - some vapid thing that is so deeply Etherian that I’m surprised the lyrics don’t explicitly reference the station - and I grin and mouth the words along to it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not my fucking fault it’s an earworm, and hey, the way Adora presses a little harder into the grinding dance when I draw her attention to the line </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby let’s fuck, let’s fuck until the heat death of the universe </span>
  </em>
  <span>is absolutely worth the fact that it’s going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the week. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I keep her there on the dance floor for another three songs, and then I spin around in her grasp, pull away, and force her to figure out how to dance without having my entire body to mimic pressed against hers. Emboldened, she gives it her best shot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her best shot is - okay, I’ll admit it. She’s fucking cute. But only because she’s awful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh, and grab her hands again, and join her in dancing as terribly and enthusiastically as I can. Nobody is going to be looking at me with lust in their eyes right now, that’s for sure, but the relief of just being an absolute idiot as an anonymous nobody in the middle of a crowd of strangers is exactly what I needed after that tense encounter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora laughs back at me, and if she’s startled by the change in my moveset it doesn’t show. We dance like morons for two more songs and then, my energy reserves finally (blissfully) purged, I take her hand and lead her off the dance floor. She’s grinning, breathing hard, sticky with sweat, and no longer looking at anything but </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck now?” She murmurs into my ear, and I huff and shake my head in mock astonishment at her crude impatience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shower,” I insist. “You stink.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We keep our fingers tangled together as we stagger back to our lockers. I strip out of my transparent crop top and thong, toss them in with the rest of the clothes I took off when I got to the club. Adora shucks her entire outfit, and then I watch out of my peripherals as she comes at me from behind. I hold still, keep my muscles uncoiled and deliberately at ease, and I don’t startle at all when her arms wrap around my stomach and her mouth presses to my naked shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” I rasp, and then clear my throat. That wasn’t supposed to come out quite so raw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she murmurs back, and then kisses my neck with slow, contemplative heat as I brace myself against the cool metal of the locker. My eyes flutter shut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s falling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can feel it in the way she lingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I should be happy about it. The sooner she trusts me enough to let me lure her off the station, the sooner I can wash my hands of this whole mission. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I much prefer sabotage to seduction. It’s simpler.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think,” Adora whispers against my neck, “I could learn to like dancing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I force myself to smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> good teacher,” I declare, with more smug bravado than I’m really feeling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>feeling is - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nope. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not going to fucking dignify that twinge in my chest with any attention, not going to validate it by giving it a label.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We gonna fuck tonight, or did you just bring that oversized strap of yours for emotional support?” I murmur, twisting in her hold to seize a sudden kiss. She exhales hard through her nose, pushes me bodily up against the lockers, and kisses back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, and Adora always kisses like she knows on some deep, fundamental level that she could die tomorrow and this could be her last chance to experience anything as good as a lover’s embrace. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kissing her always makes me wonder if she knows, if she isn’t actually fooled by anything I’ve said and has just decided to drain my cup of poison to the last drop and savor the taste of it while she can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I drag her into the shower, because I don’t think I can take a second more of this line of thinking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blast of water and the sharp smell of soap cut through the fog of weird guilt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just a job.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s nothing personal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And this new whisper of tenderness I’m getting from her? That’s the sign that I’m doing my job right. That’s the proof that I’m the best of the fucking best, and she’s just another idiot who deserves what she gets for being stupid enough to take the bait. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody mourns the fish that becomes dinner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody will mourn Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Least of all me. I wouldn’t be the best of the best, after all, if I gave in to that sort of sentimental bullshit. There’s no room for that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because I don’t have a choice. I don’t have a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>choice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and if I’m going to kill this girl it’ll be better not to get all twisted up about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I harden my heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kiss her in the shower.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I break her touching rule on purpose, as we kiss, and I cup her face with my hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tenses, and I pretend for a moment I don’t know why, and then I pretend I’ve realized where my hand is and quickly pull it away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she takes my hand, and she carefully puts it back against her face, and holds her own hand on top of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold her soft, vulnerable gaze and I try to make my eyes full of questions like </span>
  <em>
    <span>is this okay</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>what does this mean to you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The real question I’ve been wondering for a while is why she lets me kiss her but still doesn’t want my hands on her face. I’d assumed it was to protect her mouth, because that would be one way to deliver a drug of some kind, but I’m starting to think there’s something on her head that she doesn’t want me to discover. Something a wig would hide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She quirks a little smile at me as she holds my palm to her face, tilts her head a little into the touch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks tired. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stroke my thumb from the corner of her mouth to the plane of her cheek.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns her head and kisses my thumb.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s so gentle, so tender, so intimate. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A month and a half, I think. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m preparing the report to Shadow Weaver in my head as I get up on my tiptoes and kiss the dewey droplets of shower water from her eyelashes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ll have her in a month and a half.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I’ll be able to get off this station, and Scorpia will be safe, and I can move on with my life, move on to the next mission, the next target, the next objective. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold on to Adora by the shoulders as she crushes me against the tile and takes me right there in the showers, slow and aching and hot. She kisses me and fucks me, first with one finger, then two, then three. My mind is pulled in so many directions that for the first time I have to fake an orgasm with her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, I’m a little disappointed that she doesn’t seem to be able to tell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m still distracted when we leave the club together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Distracted enough that Adora notices we’re being followed before I do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t react visibly,” she whispers, as we make our way down the battered side corridor that connects this section of the station back to the main corridors. “Someone is following us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I almost say </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s nothing new</span>
  </em>
  <span> but then realize I probably shouldn’t admit I’m aware of the station authority people she’s got watching me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who?” I whisper back, inhaling deeply with as much subtlety as I can and answering my own question. “Ah. The Iwan. And he’s got friends.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Three of them in total,” she confirms, the only sign that she’s readying for a fight the twitching muscle in her jaw. “I’m unarmed. I can maybe take one, as long as none of them are packing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t smell any energy weapons,” I say quietly. I can hear them getting closer. We won’t make it to a more populated corridor of the station before they can catch up to us, and even then, it’s the night cycle so there aren’t many people out. “Think you can bully three of them into backing down without a fight?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not if they’re determined to shed blood. Not when they outnumber us. It’s a mind game as much as anything, but posturing doesn’t work as well if they haven’t seen you win a fight with their own eyes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, Adora must have had an interesting childhood. I wonder if being raised with a bunch of rowdy young Iwans and kidnapped Eternians was as horrible as being a One-Off. Probably not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Probably horrible in a totally different way.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like they need to see us win a fight, then,” I say, smirking. I’m not worried. I could have taken this guy out back at the club, but now, well… now he’s in real fucking trouble, because I’m not worried about getting banned from Salineas for repainting the walls in blood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And if station security comes running, I’ve got their golden girl Adora on my side to back up the story that the Iwans struck first. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On your signal,” Adora says, and the little phrase sticks in my heart unprompted, barbed as it is with the implication of her trust, her respect, her willingness to fight by my side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forget wondering what her childhood with the general masses of Hordak’s stolen brats must have been like. Imagine the hell the two of us could have raised if we’d been brought up together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought puts a smirk on my face, clean and sharp like a blade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly I’m glad these idiot stationers decided to pick a fight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been too long since I’ve had a good scrap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re getting ready to jump us,” I hiss, listening in on the would-be ambushers’ conversation. “We turn on them in three. Two. One!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I smell it. The pungent surge of something coming off of Adora, something like sweat and adrenaline, but cranked up to a hundred. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t have time to wonder about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My feet scrape on metal flooring as I whirl, launch myself at the nearest target. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Surprise, fuckstick!” I yell, cackling, as I land on his head and sink my claws into the back of his neck. He hollers and thrashes and I hold on, my toes hooking into the flesh of his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s war cry is a little less gleeful, a little less articulate. She plows into another one of the three brutes, clotheslining him and knocking him off his feet despite being probably a third of his weight. I have just a moment to admire the perfect form of the punch she swings at his face - </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>from the sound of that nasty crunch she just broke a bunch of teeth as promised - before a big hand comes tight around one of my legs. I dig in with my claws right as he </span>
  <em>
    <span>tugs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he screams in agony as his hide rips open courtesy of his own strength. Just like that, his hand falls back open with the shock of the pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>These kids have never been in a real fight before, have they?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Laughing, I leap from him to the third Iwan, who’s just standing there in shock. With a scrambling </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud</span>
  </em>
  <span> I land on his shoulder, kicking long shreds through the front of his shirt, soaking his chest in blue ichor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bellows, grabs me around the waist, manages to throw me. I hit the wall of the corridor, then the floor. Winded, dazed, I take a moment to collect myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up to see shredded-chest coming at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, in a blur, he’s on the floor and Adora is on top of him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Holy fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are Iwan teeth spraying everywhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; They’re fucking crazy! &gt; The one whose face I wrecked shouts. &lt; Let’s get out of here before they kill us! &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Get her off of me! &gt; Shredded-chest wails, barely intelligible as Adora rains strikes down on him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stagger to my feet, come up beside her. The two who are still standing back away from me in fear. I clear my throat, and then snarl:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Go! Get out of here! &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the sound of my voice, Adora slows and then stops her destruction of the third dude’s face, reluctantly releasing him and coming to stand beside me. Her pants are soaked in blood, but I know it isn’t hers because it’s blue instead of red. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The two who are standing help their buddy to his feet and they limp away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I watch them go, still gasping a little for breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was - fucking easy,” I wheeze, high on adrenaline. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The smell coming off of Adora fades, and she suddenly takes a step back, like she’s caught herself from falling over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit, you okay?” I say, reaching for her. She takes my hand, and then hisses in sudden pain and jerks it away again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she mutters, “I think I broke some of my fingers. Ah, fuck. Fuck, it fucking hurts.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” I say again, looking at the bloody mess she’s made of her hand. “Yeah, I’m no doctor, but that looks busted right to hell. We should get you to a clinic.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s late. Clinics are closed,” she hisses through gritted teeth. “I probably have something at home I can patch it with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That gives me an idea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know where your quarters are,” that’s a lie, “but I live really close by. I’ve got a good medkit, one of those really expensive ones - my roommate’s a fucking worrywart - I think it should still have all its cast gel and some painkillers until you can get to a clinic tomorrow morning?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora hesitates; I see her calculating risks in her head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How close?” She asks. I tell her; I know for a fact it’s significantly nearer than her place, and she must be in a lot of pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a moment, she frowns, clenches her jaw, then hisses: </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lead her back to Scorpia’s apartment, watching her out of the corner of my eye as I open it with a wave of my wrist chip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m glad Scorp works night shifts. Makes it much easier to keep this sort of shit secret from her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It should be in here somewhere,” I mutter, waving on the lights and crossing to the small bathroom. Adora stands stiffly by the door, gritting her teeth against the pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I bend down to get at the medkit under the sink and wince, feeling a sudden stab of pain of my own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, one of them must have gotten me with those big dumb claws of theirs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah well, I’ll deal with that later after Adora leaves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Straightening back up sends another lance of pain through my side, but I ignore it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora is still standing by the door when I return with the medkit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sit,” I say, jerking my chin at the sofa where I sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get blood everywhere,” she mutters, gesturing at her blue-stained pants. She makes a valid point. It’ll be a lot harder to keep this secret from Scorpia if I have to clean Iwan ichor out of the sofa cushions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, fuck, alright. Into the bathroom, you can sit on the toilet. Maybe I have some pants you can borrow, if you want a quick shower. This one’s nothing fancy though, it’s just a sonic shower, so you’ll still feel a little grimy after.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Painkillers first please,” she says, and although she isn’t letting the fact that she’s suffering show on her face - like any good Horde soldier - I can hear the edge of it in her voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit, sure, alright,” I mutter, fumbling to activate the medkit. It takes a second but finally the white and silver box turns on with a cheerful beeping jingle and then reconfigures itself into a little octagonal drone, lifting up out of my hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Injuries detected!” It announces obnoxiously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, no fucking shit,” I growl at it. I hate drones. “Dispense painkillers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please remember that opioids have highly addictive properties!” It chirps, and then spits out a little pill into my hand. I can see why Scorpia likes the fucking thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here,” I say, offering Adora the pill and then darting to the tiny kitchen to get a glass of water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see Adora looking at the pill, and then looking at the drone, and then looking at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a long, long pause.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold my breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She puts the pill in her mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>score. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not that it’s anything but what I said it was, but still - this is a hell of a threshold to have crossed. She’s alone with me. She’s taking drugs I give her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, maybe I can get that month and a half down to just a month.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Easy, Catra. Don’t rush it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s gotta happen naturally.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I offer her the water and carefully hide my wince as the motion agitates the wound on my side. Adora doesn’t seem to notice, caught up as she is in her own tumble of paranoias, and just takes the water and chugs the painkiller back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I manage to lead her into the bathroom and get her to sit on the toilet. The medical drone flutters in after us like a nervous attendant; I flick my ears at it in annoyance, but otherwise ignore it for now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How you feeling?” I ask, kneeling down on the cold sterile floor in front of her. She exhales shakily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The meds are starting to kick in,” she says. “They’re quick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Better than the shit we had in the Fright Zone,” I agree. “Etherian tech isn’t as good as the crazy shit the Eternians have, but it’s got its perks. Can I see your hand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She extends the hand towards me and I take it in both of mine; she inhales sharply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, they’re not - the drugs aren’t one hundred percent muffling everything,” she mutters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t surprise me,” I chuckle. “You probably busted like eight or nine bones. Eternian hands are weirdly fragile.” I try to be as gentle as I can as I uncurl her fingers, looking for the breaks as much with my eyes as I can instead of having to hurt her finding them by feel. “Shit, Adora, it looks like the only ones you </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> break are your thumb and your pinky. How did you keep punching that fucker over and over with your hand in this shape?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adrenaline,” she says, shrugging dismissively, and I sense that this is simultaneously a lie and the actual truth of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Interesting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well, this is going to hurt like hell, so try not to yell too loud, okay? The neighbours here are real pissy.” This makes Adora laugh, breathy and nervous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It makes me want to kiss her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So I do; just one little press of my mouth against her wrist. Just one moment of indulgence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up at her quickly, sheepishly, and discover that she’s staring at me with naked fascination. My face gets hot. Fuck, what the hell did I do that for?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stupid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyways. Back to the task at hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I clear my throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dispense cast gel, Eternian index finger,” I say to the drone, and hold out my palm. It obediently spurts out a green goo that is, uncomfortably, already body temperature. “Okay, ready?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready,” Adora says, and I suspect she’s as ready for this as I was for the muzzle scene.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Fuck, I really want to try that again. Maybe in a few weeks.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I smear the cast gel over her index finger, coating it as evenly as I can. She flinches a little bit as I jostle the broken bone, but this isn’t even the bad part. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a moment, the nanobots packed into the ooze start to organize themselves, smoothing and stiffening and forcing Adora’s finger into the shape it’s supposed to be. Adora is perfectly silent throughout the process, but I can hear her heart thundering, can see her jaw clenching and unclenching over and over, her nostrils fluttering as she forces herself to breathe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Watching her stoic expression, I can’t help but think that she’s probably endured pain much, much worse than this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” I say, when the first finger is held out in perfect reinforced posture and the cast gel has changed from a goo to a rigid hardened-resin case, “Two more to go.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Adora says suddenly. “For this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s no big deal,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s my fault those idiots jumped us. I could have just worn a shirt that didn’t show my brand.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t have to do that,” she says quietly. “Anyways, I just - I’m - all I want to say is - you know. Thanks.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grin at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll see if you’re still thanking me after we get through the other two fingers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins back at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready when you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I get the bot to dispense more goo, apply it to her middle finger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of us points out that she’s perfectly capable of doing this on her own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last finger must have more breaks than the other two, because Adora actually makes a small, strangled little noise of agony as the gel starts to harden.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly I slip my hand into her uninjured one. She looks at me in dazed surprise, distracted by the pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Squeeze me,” I say, “If it helps.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs, mumbles something that sounds a lot like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s what she said, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then makes another almost-whimper of pain. Her fingers come tight around my hand; I watch her face, tormented by the task of keeping her expression as impassive as possible, as she crushes my hand in her grip like she plans to break my finger bones to match. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>could, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I realize, if she wanted to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tonight I watched her fistfight a gigantic Iwan and win. Hell, her first instinct was to </span>
  <em>
    <span>tackle</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just what is she made of?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mean, she’s not unbreakable - </span>
  <em>
    <span>clearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>- but… in the heat of the moment, during the rush of battle, she was unstoppable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I haven’t been afraid of her for months, and with a jolt, I realize that was an error in judgement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be afraid of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If she figures out who I am, what I am, she won’t need a blaster to kill me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold one of her hands to comfort her as I cradle the other hand through the adjustments of the cast gel, and I come to the understanding that these hands could easily be what finally end me, if I’m not careful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, even, like I’m not contemplating the capacity for murder in these handsome constructs of knuckle and tendon and rough skin. “All done.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I push up off the floor, and hiss in agony. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I completely forgot about that damn claw wound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re hurt,” Adora observes with sudden intensity, frowning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Injuries detected!” The medbot contributes unhelpfully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing,” I say, with a grimace, “Just a cut.” I put my hand to my side and straighten up. Nothing to see here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your shirt is soaked in blood,” she says, and before I can assert that it isn’t mine, adds, “ - </span>
  <em>
    <span>red</span>
  </em>
  <span> blood.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” I look down. Hm. She’s right. “It’s - I can patch it. It’s fine. I’ve dealt with worse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it’s true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve stitched myself shut with trembling hands and no painkillers while hiding in a ditch before. This is nothing compared to that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me see it,” Adora says, and I know it’s not a request. I hesitate, not completely thrilled to be genuinely given orders like she thinks she’s my superior officer or some shit. She relents, and the hard shape of her body language eases off a little. “Please?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Never let them see you bleed, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shadow Weaver’s voice snaps in my mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hide all actual weakness. Expose yourself strategically, but never give the enemy a clean shot. You must never truly be standing where they expect you to be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I swallow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” I whisper, my ears flat against my head. I move my hand away from the gash, turn to let Adora see it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to push up your shirt so I can look at it, alright?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, uh, let me just - robot! Gimme more pain meds.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please be aware that opioids are - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Highly addictive, yeah yeah, gimme.” With a disapproving beep, the robot dispenses another pill. I stuff it into my mouth and swallow it dry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s bad for your throat,” Adora remarks casually. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re such a rule-follower,” I tease. Miraculously, the painkiller kicks in within just a few seconds. A thousand blessings to modern medicine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The vast majority of rules exist for very good reasons,” she says sternly, but there’s a little curl to the edge of her mouth that tells me she’s teasing right back. I don’t have a chance to reply, because she chooses that moment to lift my shirt up using her uninjured hand, and I have to clamp down my mouth to silence the sound of pain that tries to escape me. “Hold this up for me?” Obediently, I hold the edge of my own shirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fumbling a little with one hand encased in hardened cast gel, Adora swiftly locates a clean washcloth, disinfects it under the shower’s blue </span>
  <em>
    <span>decontaminate </span>
  </em>
  <span>setting, and then soaks it in warm water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her splinted fingers resting gently against my stomach, she brings her face close to my side and then gingerly washes the wound. I watch her face, watch the crease between her brows, watch the impossible care of those hands that are capable of so much violence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I manage not to make any sound as she examines the depth of the cut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’d probably be okay with just some butterfly stitches,” she says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck no, I hate those,” I say quickly. “I’m sure they work just fine on</span>
  <em>
    <span> you</span>
  </em>
  <span> but I feel like I need to remind you that</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> covered in fur.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...right,” Adora mutters, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Guess you probably need real stitches then. But my dominant hand is uh… kind of fucked right now, I don’t think I’d do a very good job with my off hand.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I could stitch myself up if I had to, but thankfully, I don’t have to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re underestimating just how fancy this medkit is,” I declare grandly. “Ever heard of liquid stitches?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Flesh glue?” She says, raising her eyebrows. “Etherians </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> that tech?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, that is seriously the grossest name. ‘Flesh glue’. Please don’t call it that if you don’t want me to barf all over you. Yes, they have it. It’s not as magical as the Eternian stuff, but it works.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh. I had no idea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It continues to amaze me how little Adora knows about the galaxy at large. For an Eternian sleeper agent and a Horde Force Captain, she seems to have been kept as oblivious as possible by both of her masters past. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you just have to like, pinch the wound shut and tell the bot to apply it. It’s just a spray so it doesn’t need to be done by hand like the cast gel. I can do it myself if you’ll just help me hold up my shirt? Since I have two functioning hands.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure,” Adora says, and we switch hands. I hold the gash closed, appreciative of the painkillers, and direct the bot to glue me shut. The stupid spray gets on my fingers, so I end up ripping out some fur anyways detaching my fingers from my side, even after vetoing the butterfly stitches. “There,” Adora murmurs, and then, to my surprise, leans in and presses a kiss to my hip bone, right below the patched injury. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My breath comes harder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart kicks up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It seems surreal. Adora’s sitting on the toilet in Scorpia’s tiny bathroom, her busted hand resting on my stomach, her mouth soft against my hip, a medical drone humming beside her head and red and blue blood absolutely fucking everywhere, and her eyes looking up at me, silver like a knife, blue like a cheap hologram, piercing like a needle and gentle like a caress. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I touch her face again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve always had this stupid fantasy about finding a woman who would watch my back during firefights and then stitch me back up again afterwards. I’ve always known it isn’t possible. Who in their right mind would fall in love with a professional killer, with a person whose entire life is telling lie upon lie upon lie upon lie? All I’m good at, all I’ve ever been good at, is sabotaging things that were working too well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Such a stupid, stupid fantasy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora stands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bathroom is tiny enough that this presses us together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She traces the edge of curled knuckles across my lower lip, considering them, and I inhale, trembling beneath her touch, beneath the intensity of her stare, beneath the intensity of my fear of just what she would do to me if she ever found out -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” I say, begging her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging </span>
  </em>
  <span>her to forgive me for what I have to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She kisses me, silencing the pain and the fear, drawing it out of me like she’s sucking venom from a bite wound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kiss back, stealing time, grasping pleasure where I can, clawing the illusion of peace and safety to myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She kisses like a woman who knows she’s marked for death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder if I kiss the exact same way.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When I pull away from Adora, she’s looking at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not that it’s exactly unusual for her to be looking at me - more unusual for her </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be, thank you very much, although I suspect at least a good fifty percent of that is just her survival instincts doing their best to keep her alive - but there’s a different kind of intensity in that stare tonight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My hands resting on her shoulders, chin tilted up to meet her gaze, I study her expression.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The skin around her eyes is more relaxed than usual; there’s no crease between her eyebrows. That little muscle in her jaw isn’t leaping like it always does when she clenches her teeth. She seems… calm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” I ask, when she just keeps looking at me like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re beautiful,” Adora says, so fucking earnest and quiet and true that I laugh reflexively to hide that I’m flustered by the unexpected compliment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m drenched in at least two different kinds of blood. Possibly three, after playing nurse for your wrecked fingers.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs - at least, as much as she ever laughs. It’s a low, pleased huff, a tiny wrinkle on the right corner of her mouth, a barely-there vibration that starts in her chest and dies in her throat before reaching her tongue. She might not even be able to tell she’s making any noise at all. It stretches her lips just enough to draw attention to the silvery old scar on her chin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Should I leave so you can shower?” She asks, still with that little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah. She’s definitely teasing. Maybe even flirting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to leave,” I whisper, reaching up to touch her chin with my fingertips, touch that scar with my thumb. Logistically, I have no idea how I would hide her from Scorpia if we actually fucked here. I could maybe try for a quickie on the sofa and hope Adora slips away before the daylight cycle starts and Scorpia gets home from work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do,” she says, soft and solid and sure, but not bitter, not fearful. Like she’s made some sort of pact with her paranoia and she has to be home for curfew or it’ll make her run laps. “But I could stay a while.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d offer to let you shower with me, but - “ I flick my eyes wryly over at the tiny shower stall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve been in roomier cryopods. Honestly, I don’t know how the hell Scorpia squeezes herself into the damn thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs again; I feel it under my palm, smile reflexively at having gotten two of them out of her in such close succession. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I watch?” She asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” I say, with an airy dismissiveness. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s true,” she says, dipping her head down to put her mouth against my ear, wrapping her arms around my waist, “For one thing, you aren’t normally covered in three different kinds of blood.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh; she pulls away and I see her react to my laughter with a small, self-satisfied little grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Idiot.” I kiss her. “You’d better let me go then,” I murmur, wiggling in her grasp. “I should probably get out of these clothes and get this shit off me before it dries in my fur.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She releases me, leans against the wall with her splinted hand held behind her back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I strip, hesitate at the threshold of the shower, look at her looking at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calm, confident relaxation looks good on her. She seems five, maybe ten years younger somehow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” She asks, raising her eyebrows, echoing my question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Might just be the high quality painkillers talking,” I say - and don’t think I don’t notice the way her eyes flick down to ogle my tits, even after how many times she’s seen them - “But it was kind of hot the way you took down those Iwans back there.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her smirk grows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That what does it for you? You should see what I’m capable of in a</span>
  <em>
    <span> real </span>
  </em>
  <span>fight. That little ‘ambush’ was about as challenging as the sparring sessions I was doing when I was fourteen.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So cocky,” I laugh, slipping inside the shower and tapping the familiar sequence into the interface. The shower whirrs to life and the last thing I say before it drowns me out is: “You’re lucky I like that about you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If you ask me, there’s nothing sexy about holding still while a jet mists you in steam and then sound waves vibrate the soggy gunk off of you, but Adora watches with interest the whole time. It takes three rounds, since the highest scouring setting would pull the barely-cured liquid stitches off of my wound and we’d be back to the issue of me being covered in blood again, so I’m stuck on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>gentle cleanse </span>
  </em>
  <span>cycle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I finish, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically</span>
  </em>
  <span> clean and </span>
  <em>
    <span>objectively</span>
  </em>
  <span> disinfected but, as expected, I still feel kind of grungy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least it’s better than the Horde showers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We switch places and while Adora cleans off I rummage around in Scorpia’s belongings to find something that will fit her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know Scorpia wouldn’t mind. She’d offer you her carapace for warmth the first time you shivered in her presence if it weren’t attached to her body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s no way these are yours,” Adora says, when she emerges from the shower and takes the workout pants and baggy tank top from me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re my roommate’s,” I say, rolling my eyes like that should be obvious, because it should be obvious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls on her utilitarian grey sports bra - struggles with it a bit, with her dominant hand splinted right to hell, but waves me aside when I offer help - and then slips into the pants and shirt. Both are loose on her - she has to roll up the pant cuffs a couple times - but honestly I don’t mind the exposed sight of her neck and collarbones on full display. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I notice there’s only one bedroom,” she remarks, following me out into the main area of the apartment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I take the couch,” I say, with a shrug. I glance back over my shoulder, interpret the look she’s giving me, and snort. “I’m not sleeping with her, if that’s what you were wondering.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was,” she says, and sounds a little embarrassed about it. Good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ugh. Me and Scorpia? Absolutely not. She’s the definition of someone who </span>
  <em>
    <span>makes love</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of fucking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I would only break her heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flop down onto the couch, pushing my bedding - neatly folded, and not by </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> - off to one side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re just friends. I’m not planning on staying here forever.” That’s the truth, even if I’m allowing it to marinate in enough misleading contextual clues to become a lie. “I can’t afford my own place right now. The apprenticeship doesn’t exactly pay a whole lot, since I don’t bring in any money while I’m just learning instead of actually tattooing clients.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora, swimming in the extra fabric of her borrowed clothes, lowers herself onto the sofa beside me. Whatever she did earlier to get that extra burst of speed and strength seems to have taken something out of her, now that the danger has passed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Guess that ‘adrenaline’ has worn off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Should I order some food?” I suggest, and - ding ding ding, we have a winner, her eyes light up like a bank of slot machines on Caprion 5.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that,” she says. “Does the akbok place deliver?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shake my head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> outside of their delivery range. There’s a great kebab place nearby Scorpia and I order from a lot, though, if that sounds alright to you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, she’s really letting go now. I wonder just what it was that convinced her she could trust me, or at least, trust food I’m giving her? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns and puts her legs up on the sofa, leaning back against the arm, and pats her inner thigh while holding my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A pleased shudder runs through me, wiping out thought like a rolling blackout making sectors of my brain go dark one by one, replaced by just one thing:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Come here, Catra. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I go to her, rising up out of my habitual spot to crawl into her lap. She smirks at me lazily, kisses me when I reach her. Her lips are soft and leisurely against mine, but they part to reveal teeth eager to nip, to bite, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>claim. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her injured hand rests between us, sitting idle against her stomach, and her left hand grasps lightly at my neck, holding me there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The slow heat that rises in my chest feels bittersweet and conflicted. I close my eyes, I breathe in the smell of her, I kiss her back, and I wish that things could be as simple as good food and mediocre showers and coming when I’m called.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I expect her to escalate things, to slip her one hand up my loose nightshirt or down my shorts, but instead the kisses slow and then stop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls away; I open my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She touches my face, calloused fingertips pushing through the thin fur of my cheek, every breath between us thick with quiet, like air that seems empty but is swirling with old dust as soon as you see it against a beam of sunlight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” she says, and I tighten my grip on the sofa that I’m using to support myself at the way pleasure rushes through me, can’t quite catch the whimper before it leaves my lips. “Order the food,” she murmurs, “and then turn over and rest your head in my lap.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My submission gives way to astonishment, and I breathe a startled laugh as impulsive and unrestrained as the whimper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you providing </span>
  <em>
    <span>aftercare</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the - the emotional drop after a battle?” I tease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says, smiling. “Not exactly the same thing, but close enough.” The tip of her middle finger draws soft circles against my jaw. “You got hurt. Let me hold you for a bit before I go.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s serious. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shit-eating grin falls from my face, and I turn away to try to hide whatever emotional nonsense is about to show on it instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, fucking fuck, fuck, why does she have to be -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Be </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A </span>
  <em>
    <span>good person?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Neither of us are </span>
  <em>
    <span>good people.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I twist in her lap, tap my wrist chip and pull up the delivery place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you want from the kebab place?” I ask brusquely, my back to her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra,” she says, and I hear the confusion and hurt - </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> - in her voice. “You’re angry. What did I do wrong? We don’t have to cuddle if you don’t want to.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing’s wrong,” I mutter, rubbing my face, making the menu projection bob up and down in time with the movement of my wrist. “I’m just hungry, I guess.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Catra,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says again, and makes the edges of my name sharp enough to cut. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flinch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It sounds just like the way Shadow Weaver has always said my name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A soft touch finds my shoulder blade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I force my breathing to slow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. Not quite the way Shadow Weaver says it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, I resent the memories the tone invokes. Resent the way her unexpected kindness made me stumble, left me vulnerable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I fucking hate being vulnerable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” I ask bitterly, and regret the surly word immediately. I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t be like this with Adora, shouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>difficult, </span>
  </em>
  <span>shouldn’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>myself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My job is to </span>
  <em>
    <span>seduce </span>
  </em>
  <span>her, to make her </span>
  <em>
    <span>fall </span>
  </em>
  <span>for me, trust me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m never going to fucking accomplish that by being the real me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath, rally myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This isn’t about me. This isn’t about Shadow Weaver. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is about keeping up my end of the bargain that I struck eight years ago, a deal signed in blood and stamped in scar tissue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stay loyal. I do any job I’m given, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> succeed. I obediently go back to the Black Garnet every time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And in return, Scorpia gets to live. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver </span>
  <em>
    <span>promised. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All I have to do is keep my end of the bargain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say, schooling my expression, pulling myself back together. Once I’m sure I’ve got my mask firmly in place again, I turn to look Adora in the eye, to endure the discomfort of her frowning scrutiny. “I - got overwhelmed. It’s fine. Cuddling sounds nice. I just wasn’t expecting you to - “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wasn’t expecting you to care. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” I say again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not my favourite word, but it’s one I’ve had to train myself to use. Nobody lasts long on the Black Garnet without learning to at least pretend to grovel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora studies me for a long time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What does she see when she looks at me?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I probably don’t want to know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can go if you need me to,” she says. “If you’d rather be alone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say quickly, “Stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to be alone, not really. I’m keeping her here because I want to make progress on our developing relationship, obviously, but also… hell, it’s been a weird day. As soon as she leaves, it’s just me and my thoughts and this little metal cube that Scorpia will probably eventually die in, if nothing ever stirs her to want more than this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a bad combination, frankly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Adora says, still frowning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ugh. I’ve fucked up, getting snappy with her. She’s going to be all concerned unless I convince her everything is just peachy. So I lean in and kiss her a few times, and she kisses back - but she doesn’t put her hands on me, not even her good one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Until she puts her hand on my chest and pushes me back, pushes me away, very, very gently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can feel how jittery you are,” she says. “Order the food. I think you need it as much as I do right now. Get whatever you normally get. I’m sure I’ll like it.” Then, like it has finally occurred to her that I’m dirt poor, crashing on somebody else’s couch like I am, she adds: “I can transfer you the credits to pay for it, if you want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let a girl have her pride,” I say, with a mocking smile. The words sound authentically raw. Probably because I’m not faking it. “I’ll buy dinner tonight. Think of it as my thanks for stepping in to try to get that guy out of my face. Even though I totally had it handled.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did,” Adora confirms a second time. “And sure.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There. Good. Her grin is back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something that was pinching unhappily in my chest finally releases its clasp and allows me to breathe normally again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn back around and lean into her, resting my shoulders against her chest as I return my attention to the online ordering portal. Adora circles her arms loosely around my waist, and the warmth of her is nice where the impersonal cleansing of the sonic shower failed to soothe my epinephrine-soaked body in any meaningful way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I order the usual, plus some fried sesame custard balls when those, inexplicably, catch Adora’s eye from over my shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sugary stuff doesn’t taste like anything to me,” I say, adding the dessert skewer to our order.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really? Huh. I like sweet things.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn down</span>
  <em>
    <span> any </span>
  </em>
  <span>kind of food.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like food,” she says simply, leaning forward to settle her cheek against my neck. “I like </span>
  <em>
    <span>flavors.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s almost the best part of being out of the Horde.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I smirk, turning, catching her eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Almost?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make sure to fill the word with weeks and weeks of raunchy memories. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns red.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Almost,” she confirms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kebab place is pretty good, but its main virtue is that it’s right around the corner. The delivery arrives four minutes and thirty two seconds after I place the order, and we make short work of the food.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m almost annoyed to realize Adora was right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel a lot better with food in my system. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could tell,” she says, looking pretty pleased with herself. “You learn to spot the signs in the fresh soldiers. A lot of them don’t know just how shaky they’ll be after a fight, sometimes you have to step in and make sure they take care of themselves.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So who took care of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>huh?” I ask, intending it to be playful. Maybe the question hits a little too close to home, though, because she goes from smug to introspective. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nobody,” she says, after a moment’s thought, and then shrugs. “Maybe that’s why I flew under the radar all the way up until Krytis. As long as I followed orders, nobody was paying attention to how I was doing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I freeze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Holy shit. Is she really opening up to me about how she got away with working for the Eternians? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I have so many questions. How long was she working for them? When was first contact? How did she receive her orders? What was she doing the entire time leading up to Krytis? Did she have other objectives, other missions?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How do I get the information out of her without making it look like I’m trying to? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(And, another question that flashes through my mind and leaves just as quickly: if I can get all of the answers we want by sleeping with her, will Shadow Weaver decide there’s no point in bringing her back in for an interrogation? Can I squeeze her for every valuable piece of intel and then slip away, leaving her to live the rest of her life on this shitty station so long as she isn’t a threat to the Horde anymore?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. I can’t afford to be naive. She’ll always be a threat. Shadow Weaver’s not going to budge on wanting a proper interrogation. Adora could be feeding me lies, knowing exactly what sort of knowledge I’d be after as a covert agent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She finally notices my reaction to her sharing this little snippet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um,” she says quickly, “anyways. Can I ask you something?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damn. There’s the subject change. Guess I’m not getting any more out of her tonight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure.” With dinner cleared away, we’re back on the sofa again, my head in her lap. I look up at her, tilting up my chin, and her uninjured left hand comes to rest lightly against my neck. My eyes flutter shut for a moment at the touch; my pulse leaps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is she suspicious? Was that tidbit about her time working for the Eternians just a test to see how I would react? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her palm is a barely-there touch against my windpipe while her fingertips stroke sweetly along my jugular.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t tell if she’s threatening me, or if this is supposed to be foreplay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Either way, my heart rate is picking up. She needs to hurry up and ask her damn question so I can find out if I need to make a dive for the stunner hidden under the sofa. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you know you wanted to be a tattoo artist?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not any of the questions I’d braced myself for. I relax again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She seems… shy, when she asks it, averting her eyes and biting her lip when my brief pause brings those eyes back down to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I came up with the idea while talking to Huntara about how much I hated the kitchen jobs. She suggested a few people she knew from her contacts who might take a chance on an ex-Horde soldier and Perfuma’s tattoo shop sounded like the most interesting option.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Nausea hits me as the memory flickers unbidden to the surface: Huntara, emaciated, hopped up on truth serum, wrists scabbed and bloody from fighting against the zipcuffs, stinking of her own sweat and piss after weeks kept prisoner in her own bathroom, and Double Trouble laughing at her glazed, drugged up expression as they ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>and just what would you say to this Perfuma to convince her to hire a friend of yours as an apprentice?)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just a job.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s just a job.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Horrible shit happens to people all the time. She’s just some old deserter. She doesn’t matter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I clear my throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And anyways, I always thought tattoos were cool. Since there isn’t really a point of getting any myself, I thought it might be interesting to be the one designing them for people and inking them. I don’t know if I’ll stick with it forever, but so far it’s alright.” Adora gives no sign that she notices my momentary distress, just gently strokes her hand up and down my throat. “Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just…” Above me, her gaze becomes distant, thoughtful. “You didn’t find it overwhelming? Suddenly having all this… choice?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heh. Wouldn’t know what that’s like. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean… people like us don’t have as much choice as the stationers who grew up here. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> got job histories and references and skills that aren’t exclusively useful for killing people. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>got twenty years of empty space on our resumes and a literal mark against us branded permanently on our skin.” She’s still looking off somewhere beyond the dulled-chrome walls of Scorpia’s quarters, so I reach up and touch her jaw. She starts a little, then looks down at me and smiles ruefully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I guess that’s true,” she says, fingertips sliding up and down my neck with renewed attentiveness. Mmm. She keeps that up, I’ll be able to get myself purring, and that’ll settle us both a little. “But I mean like, even the thought of trying to figure out what I’m supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>want… </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t know how you even picked something to find interesting. I guess it’s because you’ve actually been out in the galaxy and lived in it instead of just seeing it through the window of a troop carrier or from the end of a blaster. The first time I even saw a tattoo was on a Laturnian corpse, and I thought it was some kind of skin disease.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grin, but I shy away from outright laughing at her. I guess I can’t blame her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mean, hell, if this is how sheltered a Force Captain was, imagine what it would be like to be a grunt. Maybe this is why Scorpia’s never had more ambitions than hauling crates and paying rent. Maybe she got overwhelmed by all the choice, by all the sudden rush of new things she’d never been exposed to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I had to be able to blend in,” I say, “so we got a lot of simulation training when we were younger, got drilled on different cultural norms and all that. So I guess that’s… made it a little easier for me to transition.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora nods, goes quiet for a while. Her hand on my neck strokes up to my jawline, finds that spot under my chin that feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>just right, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and rubs there absently with light pressure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A purr erupts in my throat, and I do nothing to suppress it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My eyes slip shut, and even though I’m still listening for any indication of danger, I slow my breathing and let my hand fall from Adora’s face to drape limply over my stomach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hear a huff of an exhale above me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’re you laughing at?” I drawl, without opening my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You made fun of me for worrying about how you were holding up after the fight,” she says, low and smug, “but it seems like you needed this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? How can you tell?” It’s weird that her smell is entwined with Scorpia’s scent because of the borrowed pants my head is cushioned against. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It smells like both of them together, something my brain is not entirely sure how to react to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My body knows how it feels about it, at least, and the residual edge of fight-or-flight from the encounter and the pain of my injury seems to ebb gently away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your tail,” Adora murmurs, “finally stopped twitching.” I can hear the fucking smirk in her voice. She’s so proud of herself for learning to read me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’d better not get </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> good at reading me. That could be trouble. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Remind me never to play poker against you,” I joke. She can tease me all she wants as long as she keeps scratching under my chin like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My superior officers made me swear off poker when I was sixteen after the third time I came back to my barracks after a game in nothing but my boxer shorts,” Adora informs me, with perfect deadpan intonation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Laughter bursts out of me, shakes me thoroughly, sends my eyes flashing open and up to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Adora - ” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I wheeze, reaching behind me to grasp her bicep to stabilize myself through the giggles, “ - you aren’t serious. Are you fucking messing with me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s true,” she says, grinning down at me. Triumphant. She was hoping to make me laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What an idiot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I feel the clench inside my chest. No, no, push it down, tuck it away.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wish I’d known that when we met at the training program. I’d have made fun of you for it </span>
  <em>
    <span>mercilessly,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I say, running teasing clawtips up her bare arm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breath hitches. Her pupils widen ever, ever so slightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, she’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>easy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As if you needed more things to make fun of me for,” she says, and her grin grows wider. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost as wide as she </span>
  <em>
    <span>used </span>
  </em>
  <span>to grin, back in those days when we were nineteen and full of piss and vinegar, back when the idea of a kill count seemed sexy and our enemies were faceless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can see why she’d have been awful at games of deception as a swaggering teenager. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She used to be so expressive. Wide open, totally transparent, totally unguarded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All her insecurities laid bare, her gloating arrogance an obvious cover. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Scrambling to pretend she didn’t care, even when it was clear to anybody with functioning eyes that she cared immensely about all her squadmates. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was obvious even back then that she was the best of them - that she tried so hard because she cared so hard, and she cared so hard because she was made of pure earnestness and desire to please.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’d expected to hate her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, well - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead she’d somehow managed to make my life tolerable for one short, shining month.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I really wish it hadn’t been her that pulled the switch on that Eternian superweapon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then, if it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> been her, they wouldn’t have deliberately sent </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” I say, trying to put myself back into the position of that younger, happier me, trying to remember the way she used to smirk and bully and peacock her way through a crowd of staring goons. “I really didn’t need more ammunition than you already gave me. You were a real dork back then.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I must have been a really</span>
  <em>
    <span> hot</span>
  </em>
  <span> dork at least,” she says, still wearing that quiet, toned down grin, “for you to have wanted me in spite of it all.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re still a hot dork,” I inform her gravely, tracing my fingertips lightly up and down her arm, raising goosebumps in their wake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes a noise in her throat, low and hungry and rough with confident command. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not a noise nineteen year old Adora would have made.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are, objectively, some things that get better with age.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand moves in a slow, deliberate motion from the underside of my jaw to grip my chin in a firm, light hold. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart starts to speed up again; my silky touches along her bicep fall still.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking,” she says, and this phrase alone is murmured like a delicious threat, “about the scene with the muzzle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My breathing gets heavier, faster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What about it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure if I’m ready to try again yet, even if the thought has warmth flicking at the nerve endings between my thighs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking, if we were gonna try again, we should warm up to it more slowly.” Her thumb brushes my lower lip. Feeling a little dizzy, despite being completely horizontal, I open my mouth reflexively at the touch. She notices, turns her eyes down at me and quirks a little smile. “Good girl,” she murmurs indulgently, and, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heat and submission rush hungrily through me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I haven’t actually come yet tonight, after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just like that,” she says quietly. “I want you to start relaxed and turned on before the muzzle comes out.” I huff, and squirm, and swallow, preparing to tell her I don’t think I’m in the headspace to try it tonight, but she seems to read my mind (and if that isn’t fucking terrifying, I don’t know what is) and says: “Not tonight. I’m just thinking about how I could do a better job of making sure you enjoy it instead of being overwhelmed by it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re sweet,” I say breathily, relieved and disappointed at the same time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m responsible for you, when you’re submitting to me, trusting me with something like this,” she says, with utter seriousness. “I want to do it right.” There, right there, her face softens just a little. “I want to make you feel good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is a far cry from rough, snarling, tense Adora and her ruthless application of the leather strap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Both versions have their merits, of course. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn her, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way she’s still holding my chin, won’t let me turn away, is starting to make me wet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t your fault I freaked out,” I remind her, holding on to the shreds of my brainpower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she says. “But I was thinking about some other things I’d do differently.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? Like what?” My words are soft, whispery, eager - horny. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks down at me, and I allow myself to be lanced through, speared on her sharp blue stare.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d start with something easier, work you up to the actual muzzle later. Something like my hand over your mouth.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My groin throbs, my clit aches. I would spin around in her lap and start kissing her thighs to try to get her worked up, try to end this conversation and get to fucking already, except that I don’t dare defy the gentle hold she has on my face. I am trapped, I am pinned, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>tamed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am hers. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she sees it, and she smirks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you like that?” she growls happily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” I whisper. I want her to take me, and I know this is the correct answer if my goal is to get her as turned on as I am. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can smell her now, the aroma of her sex easily overpowering the lingering scent of Scorpia on the workout pants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I wouldn’t mind being easily overpowered by </span>
  <em>
    <span>her.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” she says, and I sigh with pleasure at those words. Her fingertips tickle at the corner of my mouth. “What time does your roommate come home?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I struggle to make my mind address things that aren’t contained to the small world of this sofa.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She, uh - she works night shifts. She won’t be home until the morning.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Adora murmurs, her voice like a long hit of something deeply addictive and too good to even contemplate resisting. I take her into my lungs, I feel her buzzing through my blood, and I make the decision to forget about Shadow Weaver and the Horde for the rest of the evening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could… put your hand on my mouth tonight, if you wanted,” I offer, with a swallow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smirks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I only have one hand tonight,” she says, some subtle wickedness present in the observation. “I’m going to have to commandeer yours to pick up the slack. How do you feel about that?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ffffuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” I whisper needily. “I feel… real </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckin’</span>
  </em>
  <span> good about that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she purrs. “Same safewords as always, and all you have to do is tap my arm if you need me to take my hand off your mouth. Understood?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” I breathe, and enjoy the floaty, loose feeling I get inside when the smell of her gets stronger at those words.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I</span>
  </em>
  <span> did that. She wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wants me to feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just for tonight, I’m going to let this be for me. Not for the Horde. Not for Shadow Weaver. Not for Scorpia.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way Adora’s looking at me, touching me, thinking about me?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s for me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just one night. Just one night that doesn’t belong to anybody else. Something I can keep for myself, one memento to keep me warm at night when all’s said and done. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No thinking about the future.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Push your shorts down for me,” Adora commands. “Just enough that I can see you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lift my hips and obey, leaving the soft pair of shorts shoved down and taut around my thighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I whimper; my mouth feels like it’s tingling in anticipation of being covered, being </span>
  <em>
    <span>incapacitated</span>
  </em>
  <span> by the hand still lingering teasingly at my chin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shirt up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I push the fabric up, exposing the rapid, eager rise and fall of my stomach and chest, and keep going until my breasts are bared and Adora, tit-obsessed as she is, is satisfied with the view. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” she murmurs, and I squirm like these words aren’t meant for me to hear, like I’ve caught her talking to herself about me while I eavesdrop. “Are you already wet?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I am. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m surprised even </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t smell it, the waft of it is so strong with my shorts rucked down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes - yes ma’am,” I manage to say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl.” I keen. Fuck, just having her hand on my face, just the </span>
  <em>
    <span>threat</span>
  </em>
  <span> of its presence, is sending me over the edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I bless and curse her mind in equal parts for coming up with this suggestion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to touch yourself for me,” Adora says, looking me in the eye as she holds my chin. “You’re not allowed to come until you have permission, and I’m not going to give you permission until you ask nicely for it.” I writhe my hips a little in anticipation, nod with dazed, frantic obedience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you say,” I whine. “I’ll be good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I will. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be good, because being good means I’m safe, means nobody will hurt me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All I have to do is be good, and that simplicity is </span>
  <em>
    <span>bliss. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> good,” Adora says, and fuck, the words hit me like a fucking truncheon. “You’re already so good for me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flex my hands, I hold back a whimper, I buck my hips -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to touch myself, but I don’t dare move without the order to start. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look at you. You’re so good,” Adora repeats, and her eyes are almost unbearable. “I’m going to cover your mouth now, and I’ll release it when I think you’ve earned the right to ask permission to come. Okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod a tiny, tiny nod, unwilling to even suggest I’m trying to dislodge her fingers from my face but not quite able to find the words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl. Tap my arm if you need the hand off. I promise I won’t be upset if you need to stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world sucks into slow motion as her palm and fingers reposition, never fully lifting from my face, drifting up and finding a place to settle over my mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart thumps - my lungs scream - my legs twitch - my jaw clenches - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Adora’s hand comes tight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I moan, delight in how muffled the sound is, rub my thighs together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Touch yourself,” Adora growls imperiously, and oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can’t obey fast enough. “One hand on your breast, teasing your nipple. The other one rubbing your clit - </span>
  <em>
    <span>slowly.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make another choked noise against her hand, lifting my chin, begging with my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Slowly,” she says again, and I have to obey. The first touch of my own middle finger against my clit is trembling, cruel with the torpor and softness imposed by my own hand. “Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I huff hard through my nose, swallow harder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, her hand on my face feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>big. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her thumb presses into one cheekbone, her index finger into the other; her pinky hooks down under the edge of my jaw. That grip isn’t going anywhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I try to open my mouth, just to see how it feels, and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> the muzzle, but not quite as restrictive. The panic doesn’t manifest, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but the edge of fear is there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just enough of it that I’m already fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>soaked. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Slip your finger down,” Adora directs. “Draw it up against yourself without going inside.” I whimper; I obey. “Good girl. Now back to stroking your clit - still slow. You don’t get to go faster until I say so.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My finger glides slick and frictionless, my other hand teases my nipple, and with only a hand on my mouth Adora holds me so securely I don’t think I could get away now if I tried. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve forgotten why I would ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to try. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” Adora says, and I burn with the sweet relief of the words, like they’re the fever that will kill the infection of all my self-doubt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can be good. I can be good for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My finger runs up and down, up and down, so fucking slow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now pinch your nipple for me. Hard.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I gasp at the order, but I can’t disobey. My finger and thumb bite down against sensitive flesh, and I hold tight and reel with the pleasure of the pain and keep holding, keep holding, until - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. Release. Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blood flowing back into my nipple is as shocking of a sensation as the clamping of my fingers, and I toss my head a little. Adora chuckles at me indulgently, tells me again that I’m good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now keep touching your nipple gently.” I exhale hard - it’s even more sensitive now, and my body pulses with pleasure. Fuck, I want to rub my clit harder, faster, anything. This is fucking torture, this heady, low buzz of stimulation. “Good girl. Now a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>bit faster with your other hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I huff my relief hard against her knuckles, and even this small increase feels enormous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whimper after whimper rises up in my throat and crashes against the shoreline of Adora’s palm against my mouth as I build myself steadily towards orgasm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re so good,” Adora says, “So fucking good, aren’t you? Keep being good for me. You’ll earn your reward. I know you will. Keep going. Don’t speed up yet. Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it’s building, it’s building, and - and I can’t come until I ask, and I can’t ask until Adora takes her hand off of my mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t stop,” Adora growls, and my body leaps in response, my limbs obedient even as my mind slips away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s looking at me, she’s smiling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re doing so well,” she says, and fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she won’t let me come, she won’t let my come but I’m not allowed to stop, and - “Harder, Catra. Harder and faster against your clit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I groan, I writhe, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>obey. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s all I think I know how to do right now, and oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m going to be in trouble soon because holy fucking shit the predicament I’m in has me roaring steadily towards coming as much as me physically touching myself is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At some point she sets her injured hand across my chest; the splinted, minty-green fingers rest rigid just below my chin. Her lap is warm and comforting and all-encompassing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like she’s holding my head firm with her entire body, not just with one strong hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My breathing comes faster, beating hard against her grasp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to keep touching myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel the edge approaching.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to beg, but I can’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look up at her entreatingly; she grins down at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you getting close?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod urgently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Faster. Don’t come.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wail in surprise, in desperate arousal. I don’t know how, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>obey. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I drive my hand up and down, thrusting my hips, grinding into the length of my finger, all the while toying with my overworked nipple with the other hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I ride the edge of almost-too-much, teetering on the precipice of climax for longer than I think I’ve ever done before without toppling over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl. Good girl. Don’t stop. Be good for me just a little while longer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My whole body feels like the copper taste of blood, if taste could be a feeling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like the sustained note right before the beat drops, dragged on by some cruel DJ long past anticipation and into discomfort. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels - it feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s hand comes off my mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” she says, “Ask permission.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t need to tell me twice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“PleasecanIcomeplease, please Adora pleasepleaseI’mso - I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span> - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Adora says sternly, and I think I might cry, but then one second later, she says, “Good girl. Come for me now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let go, I stop holding myself back, and everything goes white. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unleashed, the pleasure shakes its way through me, seizes every inch of me in a flood of cascading ecstasy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And through it all, Adora keeps saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>good girl, good girl, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and each time it rocks through me, sends another shock of prickling pleasure as intensely hot as atmospheric reentry and about as likely, it seems to me, to burn me right up and leave nothing behind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The orgasm takes me so completely for half a heartbeat I think </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m dying</span>
  </em>
  <span> and am so dazed that I am utterly, utterly fine with that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, I don’t die, and what’s waiting for me on the other side of that reckless ride is the soft, floaty daze of </span>
  <em>
    <span>after. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora touches me lightly as I come down, and each brush of her fingertips feels magnified a thousandfold. I gasp and shudder and quake, and then when I can move again, I roll over onto my side, curl into a ball, and burrow my face into her thigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” She asks, stroking my hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mumble what I think is a yes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fucking - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kiss her legs unabashedly over and over through the baggy fabric of the borrowed pants, not because I’m trying to rile her up because I feel like somehow, somehow, I need to express - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>- express -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>- fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” I murmur against her inner thigh, still shaking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She asks, touching my hair, my ears. Some part of me notices she’s only using one hand and wants to fuss about this lack before I remember her busted hand and the fact that it’s the entire reason she’s even here in the apartment, fucking me into oblivion with my own fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - you’re - “ What do I say? What would I say, if - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. How fucking messed up is it that I almost just blurted </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to miss you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was  - good,” I make myself say. “Really fuckin’ good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she chuckles, “The hand on your mouth wasn’t too much?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I laugh shakily, curling myself tightly around her leg, wary of not pushing us both off the couch and onto the floor. “It was - it was just enough.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Adora says, running long, slow strokes down my back. “Just float for a while, okay? I’ve got you. I’ll stay until you’re good, alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to do this anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But what I want has never mattered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it’s not about to start mattering now. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Three months,” I tell Double Trouble, “Maybe four.” </p><p> </p><p>Their eyebrows lift in disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>“I was under the impression you were making <em> progress, </em>darling,” they coo. </p><p> </p><p>“I was,” I say, “I <em> am. </em> But she’s not exactly the trusting type. I pulled out the big guns with that little panic attack,” they and I seem to have agreed to continue the falsehood that it was, in fact, not a real one, “ - and she’s still paranoid as hell around me, still has the station intelligence officers following me and supervising from a distance whenever we’re together.” </p><p> </p><p>I don’t tell them about the pill Adora took from me. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t tell them about the four hours we spent together tangled in each others’ arms on the sofa, talking late into the night about our fucked up childhoods until she finally told me she had to go and kissed me goodbye. </p><p> </p><p>I need some breathing room to figure this out.</p><p> </p><p>I need to buy myself more time to <em> think.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Shadow Weaver won’t like that,” they murmur, pleased - if their smirk is anything to go by - with the effectiveness of this understatement. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, Shadow Weaver can suck my dick,” I snap. They laugh. Both of us know I’d never say that in her hearing. </p><p> </p><p>“As <em> charming </em> as your complex adversarial dynamic with your terrible parental figure is,” Double Trouble drawls, leaning back into the leather sofa of the Crimson Wastes, crossing one leg over the other, “there are more people than just <em> her </em> who care about getting this mission done. It isn’t just your personal little hostage situation you have to worry about.”</p><p> </p><p>I fucking hate that they know about Scorpia. I’m not sure how they found out, but I’m sure Shadow Weaver wouldn’t have told them on purpose. </p><p> </p><p>“I know that,” I grumble, leaning back against the steel cord railing. I wonder if I could balance on top of it. Not much of a foothold, but… maybe I could do it. </p><p> </p><p>“You may understand it academically,” Double Trouble says, studying their claws and picking idly at something underneath one of them, “but do you understand it in the <em> practical </em> sense of what it means for <em> us? </em> Big daddy up top isn’t happy the Eternians infiltrated Hordak’s patchwork collection of non-clone troops. There are whispers that he might cancel the entire program and call it a failure.”</p><p> </p><p>Their eyes lift slowly to meet mine, catching the moment when comprehension dawns and all the fur on the back of my neck stands on end. </p><p> </p><p>“What happens if Prime decides the whole experiment with non-clone troops is a failure?” I ask out loud. I already know what <em> I </em>think the answer is, but I want to hear it from them. </p><p> </p><p>“For Baron Hordak? Stripped of his rank and sent down for reconditioning and a hard reboot, I’d imagine. For his motley little branch of the army, you and I and Shadow Weaver herself included? Mandatory rollout of brain chips for integration into the hivemind at best, and a tasteless, odorless poison into the drinking water of every troop carrier and ground base at worst.” </p><p> </p><p>“You really think he’d waste thirty million perfectly good troops? Because we got infiltrated <em> once?” </em>I bristle.</p><p> </p><p>I make myself angry about it. Anger is easier to handle than fear. </p><p> </p><p>“Proud man, our father,” Double Trouble clucks. “He’s made sweeping, wasteful decisions before just to make sure the rest of the universe is kept guessing and kept in sufficient awe. But you <em> are </em> right that it would be a dreadful waste. I suppose if he wanted to get rid of Hordak’s less-than-perfect troops, he could send us on some kind of suicide mission to Eternia.” Their eyes light up. “Why, he could have all the troops with Eternian heritage in the vanguard. Talk about <em> mind games.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. So, while I do respect that we’re trying to peel a grape and you happen to be the sharpest scalpel in the drawer, you’ll appreciate that <em> some </em> sense of urgency is warranted. Shadow Weaver needs to be able to prove that we can get things back under control <em> quickly </em> and <em> quietly. </em>We need to retrieve the Force Captain who turned on us, drain her dry of every Eternian secret she’s got, and find some way to reassure our lord and master that it will never, ever happen again.” </p><p> </p><p>I swallow.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Yeah.” The cable behind me bites into my palms as I lean more weight against it. “Message received loud and fucking clear.”</p><p> </p><p>Time. I need more time to think my way out of this. </p><p> </p><p>(There isn’t a way out of this, I know. I just have to do my fucking job.)</p><p> </p><p>“Two months,” I say, my mouth dry. “I’ll have her primed for extraction in two months.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s my girl,” they say, their smile silky and sweet and full of serrated edges. I manage not to shudder. “I’ll do what I can from my end to hurry things along. Let me know if you could use a supporting character or two.” They slide effortlessly into another body, taking up significantly more of the sofa in the form of the Torstosian woman I’ve been topping every now and then to pass the time and build scene cred while waiting for Adora to appear on the station. “You should play with somebody else in front of Adora soon,” they say, with Isphae’s low, growling voice, tossing the imitation of her thick dark mane of hair. “Remind her that you’ve never agreed to anything exclusive, force her hand and make her admit she <em> wants </em> that something exclusive.” </p><p> </p><p>“I know how to do my job,” I snarl. </p><p> </p><p>I haven’t touched anybody else since Adora started kissing me. I hadn’t expected Double Trouble to notice it - hell, I’d barely even noticed I was doing it myself - but of course they’re too attentive to let something like that slip. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Do </em> you?” They laugh, sharp and cruel, slipping back into their favored appearance. I shudder. Fucking Taenians. You couldn’t keep a Horde brand on one of them if you tried, no matter how many times you burned it into them, and I’ve long suspected that’s as true of their loyalty as it is of their skin. “Better start <em> acting </em> like it then, kitten.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I’ve gotten us this far. No matter how good you think you are, I’m not fucking replaceable on this one. You can’t fake old history.”</p><p> </p><p>They sigh, upend a palm in my direction.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I suppose <em> not. </em> At least, not for <em> long. </em> Anyways, do consider my <em> suggestion. </em> The sooner Force Captain Adora decides she wants you all to herself and musters the stupidity to commit to that compulsion, the sooner she’ll start thinking of you as hers and of herself as <em> yours. </em> Once we’re there, it’s just a few short steps to getting her to open up. I’m sure she has <em> so much </em> on her mind she wants to talk about to someone who <em> truly </em> understands her in a way no Etherian can.” </p><p> </p><p>I think about how haunted she always looks, about how urgently she wanted me to understand that she didn’t know her actions on Krytis would lead to the entire planet’s population being wiped out.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” I say, trying to smirk, trying to look like I think it’s funny that she’s stupid enough to want to trust someone with her darkest of secrets, “Alright.” I push off the railing as nonchalantly as I can. “Anyways, I’ve got to get to work. Perfuma doesn’t care if I’m a couple minutes late but she’ll notice if I make it a habit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good thinking, kitten,” they say, making no move to rise to see me to the door. “In our line of work, the only thing deadlier than a blaster is making the mistake of forming a habit.”</p><p> </p><p>I don’t answer. They’re deeply addicted to always having the last word, and I tend to just let them have it for the sake of my own sanity. </p><p> </p><p>They’re so fucking obnoxious.</p><p> </p><p>I don’t really want to acknowledge that they’re right.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>I avoid the club for a few days.</p><p> </p><p>I need <em> time.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I need time to<em> think.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The message comes late into the night cycle while I’m sitting on Scorpia’s sofa, toying with staying awake until she comes home just so I can see her stupid face for a couple hours until I pass out. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hey. You up?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I laugh bitterly to myself. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck’s sakes, Adora. Really? You want to move to late night booty calls <em> now, </em>now that I’m trying to draw this out a little more and figure out what the fuck I think I’m doing? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, I’m up.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>On an impulse, I tap a quick photo of the drawing tablet across my lap, the half finished design I’ve been unenthusiastically poking at for the last few hours while I’ve been thinking. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You drew that?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I huff, shake my head, smile at the stupid question. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That’s my hand on the stylus in the picture, dumbass. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her reply is almost instantaneous. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I can hear you smiling. It looks really good. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I stare at the first part of the message for a while, feeling suddenly off balance. </p><p> </p><p>It takes me a while to answer:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You can’t hear shit. We’re texting.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And then,</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thanks though. What are you up to? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thinking about you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sigh. That’s what I was afraid of. I should be exuberant. This should be exactly what I was hoping for. </p><p> </p><p>Adora’s not very good at flirting over text, but she eventually gets to her point and asks if I want to meet up at a hotel.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>There’s really no avoiding it.</p><p> </p><p>I have a job to do. </p><p> </p><p>I shouldn’t have let myself get fond of her, but I did, and that’s nobody’s fault but my own. I’m just going to have to suck it up and deal with it and feel like shit after the job is done. There’s no two ways about it.</p><p> </p><p>I meet her at the hotel. </p><p> </p><p>She smiles at me shyly when I find her waiting in the lobby, and then her eyes <em> catch </em> as she sees the slinky number I’m wearing. I know for a fact she’s never seen me in this translucent single-shoulder jumpsuit before. The way her mouth falls open at the sight of me almost makes up for the exhausted reluctance I had to battle to change out of my sleepwear and pull the fuck-me-now jumpsuit on. </p><p> </p><p>I’m going to hate myself for it later, but I’m not going to half-ass a hookup when the stakes are so fucking high. Sexy outfit, check. Eyeliner and freshly applied hair gel? Check. Smirking swagger? Check check check. </p><p> </p><p>I can fake it.</p><p> </p><p>Adora wants my body, wants the sultry exoticism of a rare species eager to warm her bed the moment she calls? She can have it. </p><p> </p><p>All it’ll cost is her life. </p><p> </p><p>She leads me to the room, and I listen for her heart’s throbbing, inhale in search of the scent of her arousal, but I find they’re both more subdued than I expect them to be. I <em> do </em> smell liquor though, both on her breath and in her sweat. She’s not walking like she’s drunk, but she’s clearly had a few.</p><p> </p><p>She rests her hand on my lower back as she unlocks the door with her wrist chip. </p><p> </p><p>The room is small and clean; I can tell by the smell of them that this is one of the swanky hotels that actually washes their bedsheets in between guests instead of just reprinting new single-use sets for each booking. </p><p> </p><p>Adora’s hands are on me as soon as the door is locked behind us; I ought to smirk, ought to laugh, ought to teasingly remind her of how similar this is to how we first reunited on board the station.</p><p> </p><p>My heart isn’t in it</p><p> </p><p>I just want to fuck her and get this over with. </p><p> </p><p>I pull us back towards the bed; she pushes me down into it and I force myself to grin up at her. </p><p> </p><p>She pauses, regards me. </p><p> </p><p>I look at her, really <em> look </em> at her for the first time tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes seem distant and glassy, and that small, brief smile she wore when she saw me walk into the hotel lobby hasn’t made a reappearance since then. </p><p> </p><p><em> Are you - </em>  I start to say, at the same moment that she says <em> What’s wrong?  </em></p><p> </p><p>We laugh, a little. She’s standing between my thighs at the end of the bed, and when her broad palms stroke up my legs I don’t feel any hunger in the touch. </p><p> </p><p>“You first,” she says. </p><p> </p><p>I shake my head, hold out my hand for her.</p><p> </p><p>She takes it, allows herself to be pulled into the bed. I kiss her, try to find some heat in it. All I find is a soft solemnity before she pulls away. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you wanted to hook up tonight,” I say pointedly. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought I wanted that too,” she says, apologetic. She touches my face. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve been drinking,” I say. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s - I - I had kind of a rough day. At work. Got some bad news.” </p><p> </p><p>Ah, so she tried to make it go away with liquor, and when that didn’t work figured she’d try to use <em> me </em> to make it go away. I try to manifest some kind of bitterness inside of myself, try to resent her for treating me as some kind of budget therapist or easy high. </p><p> </p><p>But for whatever reason, I just feel relieved that she called me.</p><p> </p><p>We shimmy up higher into the bed, settle back into the pillows, and regard each other with a mutual uncertainty. After a few moments, she sighs and runs her fingers through my hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. You don’t have to stay. I shouldn’t have - I just - “ she shakes her head, looks me over. “You look really beautiful. I’m sorry you went to all that effort for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, this?” I snort, striking a pose on the hotel bed. “This is just my casual lounging wear, I already had this on.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiles but doesn’t laugh. She looks so tired. </p><p> </p><p>“I kind of get the feeling you weren’t really in the mood either,” she remarks, and I’m honestly surprised by the astute observation. </p><p> </p><p>“I dunno,” I say, caught out. Echoing her own excuse back at her, I mumble: “I guess I thought I was in the mood until I realized I wasn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>I look away sheepishly, but when I look back at her, she’s still staring at me intently, the little line of worry back between her eyebrows. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t ever do that with me,” she says, with a quiet intensity. “Okay? Don’t ever pretend you want something just to go along with what I want.”</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t,” I say, mostly honestly, “I won’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“Promise me,” she says.</p><p> </p><p>“I promise.” The words come out of me like a barbed hook, catching and ripping on the way out, twisting my stomach, tearing my heart. </p><p> </p><p>Adora’s hand in my hair is gentle - <em> reverent.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I could - I don’t think I could handle it, if you ever lied to me about something like that. I don’t want you to lie to me.”</p><p> </p><p>I wonder how much of this is only coming out of her because she’s been drinking. It wasn’t that long ago she was convinced every word out of my mouth was a lie. </p><p> </p><p>I frown, I lean in, and I kiss the wrinkle between her eyebrows. </p><p> </p><p>“How much have you had to drink?” I ask, avoiding this conversation, avoiding having to make <em> too </em> many promises I know I’ll have to break. </p><p> </p><p>“Two and a half glasses,” she says. “I poured the last half down the drain when you said you’d meet me here.” She sounds proud of herself for this. I wonder just how bad her addiction is. </p><p> </p><p>I smile apologetically at her. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe we can get your money back for the room, if we go down there now and say we saw a big mutant roach or something,” I offer. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” she says, sitting up. “So you don’t want to stay.” </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you didn’t want to have sex?” I brace myself to dig deep into my energy reserves, to muster some enthusiasm if she decides she’s changed her mind. </p><p> </p><p>“I still want to see you,” she says softly, earnestly, “even if we’re not going to have sex.”</p><p> </p><p>I - </p><p> </p><p>I’m - </p><p> </p><p>“Adora,” I mutter, putting everything I can’t say into those three shaky syllables. </p><p> </p><p>I say her name, and what I don’t say is <em> why couldn’t you just have been the fucking jackass I just sort of assumed you’d grow up to be after years of command and active duty?  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Stay,” she whispers in reply, not touching me but holding me with her eyes. “Please.” </p><p> </p><p>I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this needy, this vulnerable. </p><p> </p><p>It’s fallen into my lap, and I can’t - I can’t fucking <em> afford </em> to turn this opportunity down. </p><p> </p><p>Not when Scorpia’s life is on the line. Not when the life of every non-clone Horde kid being raised in the diaspora scattered across hundreds of Baron Hordak’s dreadnoughts is on the line. </p><p> </p><p>I’m not sure I really believe Horde Prime would order us all killed, but I’ve heard Shadow Weaver say more than once that the unique value proposition of the Covert Ops division is the only reason he hasn’t just chipped us all and been done with it. </p><p> </p><p>I know enough about the hivemind to consider that about the same, more or less, as a death sentence. </p><p> </p><p>Possibly worse.</p><p> </p><p>I don’t intend to find out. </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” I say, turning a tired smile on Adora, pulling her back down into the bed. “I’ll stay.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiles back at me.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” she says, curling close, playing with the soft fabric bunched at my waist. “I know this isn’t… what you were expecting tonight to be like.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay. I could probably use a quiet night anyways. How have your fingers been doing?” </p><p> </p><p>“Good as new,” she says, holding them up and flexing them for me to see. </p><p> </p><p>I crane my head forward and place a kiss on the heel of her thumb; she makes a little noise of - surprise? Pleasure? Then she crinkles a little smile at me.</p><p> </p><p>“How’s your side?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” I shrug. “I didn’t go to a clinic or anything for it, but that little medkit Scorpia has is pretty solid. It should heal up no problem. Just one more scar for my collection.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad to hear it.” </p><p> </p><p>We stay like that for a moment, lying on top of the covers fully clothed, heads on the pillows and just… looking at each other. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” I try, after a few soft seconds, “Am I allowed to ask what happened at work that made you feel the need to drink two and a half glasses of - “ I sniff, consider the aroma, “ - cheap Etherian whiskey?” </p><p> </p><p>Her eyebrows go up a little, but so does the corner of her mouth. I like that she always seems so quietly impressed by my senses. That expression settles back into something morose as she considers the answer to my question. </p><p> </p><p>“I guess the short version is… I got into an argument with my boss about, uh. Whether I’m ready to take on more responsibility.” I quickly translate in my head; I know she’s working with the station administration, most likely as an informant and policy advisor, so more responsibility might mean her trying to get back into the field, or it might mean she wants a bigger role with more power, more influence on the station itself.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow I don’t think it’s the second one.</p><p> </p><p>“That sucks,” I say, and wonder what it means that the administration doesn’t seem to trust Adora. Are they worried she’s a double agent? (Triple agent?) Do they think she’s too much of a haggard emotional mess to be given much in the way of actual duties? </p><p> </p><p>I think they’re stupid. I think an asset like Adora is completely wasted on this tiny, meaningless little station. I think they have no idea the value of what they’ve got in her. </p><p> </p><p>“If I were your boss,” I say with conviction, “I’d give you as much responsibility as you wanted.” </p><p> </p><p>She smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“If you were my boss, this would be ethically dubious,” she says, and I laugh quietly. Her jokes are never that funny, but she gets this proud little glint in her eye when she says something she thinks is hilarious, and it’s really more charming than it has any right to be. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe,” I say, and kiss her forehead. An argument with her boss about wanting another role doesn’t sound like something worthy of late night binge drinking and putting herself at more risk than usual with me by going somewhere isolated like a hotel room. I’m sure there’s a lot she’s not telling me. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t push.</p><p> </p><p>“You should take off your shirt,” I suggest, and she raises an eyebrow at me. “Not for sex, I mean - if you want, I’ll rub your back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” she says. “That sounds nice.” It’s such a neutral phrase, <em> that sounds nice, </em>but it pours out of her mouth like a prayer, like she feels like she absolutely doesn’t deserve it but is afraid to scare away whatever good luck has mistakenly put it on her plate. </p><p> </p><p>I watch her while she sits up and peels off her plain grey compression shirt, leaving her in just a white tank top. We rearrange and I steal all the pillows to stack behind my back, sitting up against the headboard while she leans back into me. </p><p> </p><p>She hisses in pain at the first exploratory kneading of my knuckles. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, you’re tense,” I tease. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” she mumbles.</p><p> </p><p>“Just try to relax.” </p><p> </p><p>I don’t think Adora has relaxed a single day in her life. </p><p> </p><p>Her shoulders and neck are familiar to me now, as is all of her body. The smell and feel of her skin is comforting, easy, soothing. </p><p> </p><p>I work the tension from her bit by bit, and my mind goes blissfully quiet. </p><p> </p><p>That’s the beauty of the thing, really; the job is to find the knots, soften the tight clenches, work in a pattern and in a rhythm and respond to what I find with my hands. It’s just enough active thinking that my mind can’t wander, but also repetitive enough that it isn’t mentally demanding. </p><p> </p><p>My fear, my stress, my conflicted emotions - all of them go out of focus as I work in tune with my knuckles and the heels of my hands and let my brain sit this one out for a bit.</p><p> </p><p>It’s nice.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re purring,” Adora remarks dreamily, after a while. </p><p> </p><p>“Am I?” I say, surprised, and realize she’s right. “Huh.” </p><p> </p><p>“Makes me feel less bad about letting you do this,” she murmurs, with a self-deprecating smile. </p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t feel bad at all,” I snort. “You forget the part where I <em> offered?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“No,” she says, still with that smile. </p><p> </p><p>We drift back into comfortable silence; my purr seems impossibly loud now. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice before that I was doing it. Adora interrupts every now and then with a soft noise of pain, and I try to ignore the little twist of arousal each one makes me feel. </p><p> </p><p>I like the idea of her whimpering under me. </p><p> </p><p>I like the idea of returning every stroke, every lash, every bruise she’s ever given me.</p><p> </p><p>I have a <em> very </em> strong suspicion that she’d like it just as much as I would. </p><p> </p><p>I rub her shoulders until her heart and lungs are slow and relaxed in my peripheral hearing. She uncoils, unclenches the same way she does after a good impact play session when she’s turned me to delicate, pliant jelly and doesn’t seem to realize she’s just as purged by the shared catharsis.</p><p> </p><p>“How’s that feel?” I murmur.</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” she says, “real good,” and I wonder, absently, if it’s possible she’s slipped a little into subspace. </p><p> </p><p>She slides down and settles her head in my lap, face cradled in my crossed legs.</p><p> </p><p>She’s so relaxed.</p><p> </p><p>And there’s <em> one </em> part of her body I haven’t had the chance to explore yet.</p><p> </p><p>I think if I’m ever going to get away with it, now is the time.</p><p> </p><p>I run my fingers through her hair, gently rubbing her scalp. An innocent touch, one any lover would take to without much thought, and one that makes Adora hum softly and happily. My hand roams, her short golden hair parting smooth and soft between my fingers, and then -</p><p> </p><p>And then I find it.</p><p> </p><p>On the left side of her head.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a scar - a <em> big </em> scar - that doesn’t match anything in her personnel files from before Krytis. </p><p> </p><p>It runs from her temple back to behind her ear in a long scything swoop, easily three inches long. It’s clean, neat, surgical. </p><p> </p><p>There’s no way regulation Horde hair would have hidden it. Which means she got it <em> after </em>she betrayed us. </p><p> </p><p>And then I feel how stiff she’s gone against me, pick up the sound of her heart thumping hard. She’s noticed me noticing the scar. </p><p> </p><p>I take my hand away quickly. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” I blurt, “I wasn’t thinking, I - it wasn’t on purpose.” </p><p> </p><p>Adora rolls around to look at me, and all my muscles tense up, ready for a fight. </p><p> </p><p>It would be fitting, wouldn’t it, for it to end in a hotel room when it started in one. </p><p> </p><p>At least if Adora kills me, I won’t have to live with the consequences of failing this mission. I won’t have to go a single second knowing Scorpia died because of me, that Horde Prime ordered every non-clone soldier repurposed as a mindless vessel and had all the spare children, waiting in the wings to become soldiers someday, dumped out of airlocks en masse. </p><p> </p><p>But she doesn’t kill me.</p><p> </p><p>She sets her head back down in my lap, facing up to look at me.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you,” she says, quietly. “If you want to know.”</p><p> </p><p>I stare at her in disbelief. </p><p> </p><p>This can’t be real. </p><p> </p><p>This has to be a test.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no fucking way.</p><p> </p><p>“You - “ I blink, frown, reach for her face. Why? Why the fuck would she tell me after all this time guarding her secrets so viciously? “You trust me with this?”</p><p> </p><p>She holds my eyes seriously and is silent for a long time.</p><p> </p><p>Then, soft as starlight and as blistering as a solar flare, she says:</p><p> </p><p>“I’m choosing to.”</p><p> </p><p>Tears spring up in my eyes.</p><p> </p><p>They’re real. I don’t know - I don’t fucking know what they’re all about, I mean, it’s - </p><p> </p><p>Fuck -</p><p> </p><p>I blink them away as rapidly as I can, wipe them off on the back on my hand with an undignified snort. I throw my head back, look at the ugly stucco ceiling for a second to ground myself, then look back down at her. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I say, feeling like someone’s just pushed my chest through an industrial ice miner. “Yeah. If you want to tell me. If you feel like you’re ready.” </p><p> </p><p>I’ve been an active covert ops agent since I was nineteen years old and I’ve never felt guilt like this before in my entire life.</p><p> </p><p>She huffs, smiles wryly. Reaches for my hand. </p><p> </p><p>I give it to her, and she twines our fingers together; she rubs the knuckle of my forefinger with her thumb, like it’s a good luck charm. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know about ready,” she confesses. “But I don’t… think I’ll <em> ever </em> feel ready. I just. I’m tired of...  “ she trails off. Her thumb keeps rubbing, rubbing. She swallows, not looking at me. “It hurts. It hurts, and nothing I’ve done makes it stop hurting, and I just feel like, maybe if I could just <em> tell </em>someone, maybe it… wouldn’t hurt as much.” </p><p> </p><p>I can’t help myself. I bring my free hand to her scalp, run my fingers through her hair, trace that long scar again, and I say:</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck did the Eternians <em> do </em> to you, Adora?”</p><p> </p><p>She huffs again, then reaches up and moves my hand.</p><p> </p><p>“That one wasn’t the Eternians.” Her fingers close around mine, guiding them carefully to about an inch lower on her head, hidden behind her left ear. She settles the pad of my index finger into a tiny divot. Another scar - smaller, more easily disguised. <em> “That </em>was the Eternians.” </p><p> </p><p>Something in her tone tells me the size of the scar is not proportional to the size of her feelings about it.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” I say suddenly, “You’ve been drinking. Do you want to wait until you’re sober to tell me this? I don’t want you to regret it.” Maybe I can put this confession off. Maybe if she doesn’t tell me everything of her own free will, it won’t hurt quite so much when I give her up to Shadow Weaver.</p><p> </p><p>She laughs; it’s a dark, hateful sort of sound.</p><p> </p><p>“Two and a half glasses? Maybe if I’d had twice that, I’d be in trouble. No, I’m fine. I’m not even really tipsy anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>I slide my touch away from the scar, but I don’t take it away from her head entirely.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, now that there’s nothing left to hide - as far as I’m aware - I go back to running my fingers through her hair. </p><p> </p><p>I’m trying to soothe myself more than I’m trying to soothe her, I realize.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, but she doesn’t release her hold on my other hand. I don’t try to pull it away. </p><p> </p><p>She keeps her eyes closed, even when she starts to talk.</p><p> </p><p>“The Eternians picked me out of the debris of my ship after a firefight two years ago just outside of the Aqueous System. My hull was breached and I ordered a strategic retreat. I don’t remember much. I fought them, and then I was out cold, and then I was waking up again in empty space in my ship’s emergency cryopod, being pulled into the Cleansing Flame, safely on board a Horde dreadnought. They scanned me for bugs, ran me through the usual battery of questioning under veriathilin, and decided I was clean and good to go right back to work.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you weren’t,” I murmur. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she says, “I wasn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“So the Eternians knew that if they were going to get you back into the ranks unnoticed, you couldn’t actually <em> know </em> anything had been done to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” she confirms, face tight. It wouldn’t have been her first time under the influence of truth serum, but it’s never fun, even when it’s your own side doing it to you. </p><p> </p><p>“So what <em> had </em> they done? Do you… actually know?” </p><p> </p><p>“I do now,” she says, lifting her free hand and then lowering it again, like she’s used to fighting the urge to touch the scars on her head. “It was a brain chip - tiny, constructed from protein crystals that don’t show up on our - on Horde tech scans.” </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck. For real?” I knew their technology was wild, but this is beyond my capacity to understand. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she says, “or at least, that’s how it was explained to me. But that was… that was way later. All I knew was, it was a miracle I had survived the battle and floated back in the direction of a Horde ship, and I was cleared to return to duty. So I did.” She opens her eyes again, but she doesn’t look at me, just off at some distant spot on the hotel room wall. I keep running my fingers through her hair even as I reflexively commit each detail of her story to memory as accurately as I can. </p><p> </p><p>“She came to me in a dream about a week later. It was a short dream. Just a ghostly face, a vision of glorious battle, and this feeling of… of <em> rightness, </em>of… of peace and certainty.” I watch the frown etch itself deeper and deeper into Adora’s face, but her voice doesn't quaver. “Of course, it was all just a set program, a scheduled series of vague dreams accompanied by a release of chemicals into my brain that would make me feel good about having them. By the time she actually introduced herself, I looked forward to dreaming about her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Her?”</p><p> </p><p>“Light Hope.” Adora spits these words with a hateful curl to her lips. Her hand clutches tightly at mine. “They - she - she was an AI construct. And they put her into my head. They put her into my head and gave her control of my brain chemistry.” Her eyes clamp shut again, and she curls tightly around one of my knees. I can smell her sweat, smell her adrenaline. Fear. </p><p> </p><p>She’s afraid. </p><p> </p><p>“Adora,” I whisper, “we don’t have to talk about this if - “</p><p> </p><p>“No. I just - I want to - I <em> need </em> to tell someone who’ll actually - “ she takes a deep breath, presses her forehead against my thigh. “Who’ll actually understand.”</p><p> </p><p>I think of Double Trouble laughingly saying those words.</p><p> </p><p>I think of myself laughing along.</p><p> </p><p>I feel sick.</p><p> </p><p>I look away from Adora, blinking, trying to keep my breathing even. </p><p> </p><p>She takes my silence as a cue to continue. </p><p> </p><p>“After a couple weeks of the vague dreams, she introduced herself. She told me that I was an Eternian by blood and by birthright, and that I’d been stolen from my people and lied to all my life. I still thought they were just dreams, so… I didn’t tell anybody. And she could - she could pick up on my thoughts, and collect memories if I actively thought about them, and she would use them to convince me to do things. Even when I still thought I was just having weird dreams, she was there, watching everything I did, subtly influencing my decisions. After a couple of weeks of the dreams, I started to tell someone about them, and then I suddenly just felt… really bad, and changed my mind about it. But it was her. It was her changing my mind <em> for </em> me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuuuck,” I murmur, horror sloshing wildly around in my stomach, mixing like sour acid with the guilt. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. So. After a month she spoke to me while I was awake, when I was alone in my quarters. She told me I wasn’t crazy. She got me to feel behind my ear, where the scar was, to prove that I wasn’t crazy. And she told me that she was a gift from the Eternians, that I was going to be set free from the Horde and brought back to Eternia and celebrated as a hero there.”</p><p> </p><p>“But if all they wanted was to ‘rescue’ you,” I interrupt, “they could have just taken you back to Eternia when they pulled you out of your fighter.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she says, and the anger in her voice is white hot. “I asked the same question. Light Hope told me that they needed me to prove, first, that I had a pure heart. That I was a good person, that given the choice I would pick the side of light instead of the side of darkness.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit,” I mutter.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Adora agrees, “Bullshit. But it sounds a lot less like bullshit when every time you think about going along with it, an AI feeds you a little hit of dopamine. She trained me. She trained me like a fucking lab rat.”</p><p> </p><p>I shudder.</p><p> </p><p>“It sounds like the hivemind chip.”</p><p> </p><p>“Kind of. But not… exactly the same. It was always still me in control. The AI wasn’t taking over, she was just… hitchhiking in my mind, or - or maybe, more accurately, riding on my mind like one of those old civilizations that have beasts of burden. Pulling a rope or hitting with a stick to get the animal to go where you want it to go, do what you want it to do.”</p><p> </p><p>The stink of Adora’s sweat is almost overpowering. I don’t want to send her into a panic.</p><p> </p><p>“So what happened, between her talking to you and Krytis?”</p><p> </p><p>“A lot of her fucking blowing smoke up my ass about me being some great hero and the Eternian leadership having some incredible, meaningful destiny for me. There were also a lot of, uh… simulations. Every night I’d go back to my quarters and close my eyes to sleep and my dreams would just be an hours-long ad for how amazing life is on Eternia.”</p><p> </p><p>“That sounds like torture,” I scoff.</p><p> </p><p>“It - “ she rubs her face. Her cheeks flush. “It was… it was catered to me, I’m pretty sure. To my fantasies. I still don’t even know how much of it was real, the Eternians are so fucking secretive and isolationist when it comes to their homeworld. But at some point Light Hope figured out I was… really interested in… y’know, stuff like what goes on at the Crimson Wastes - “</p><p> </p><p>It takes all the strength in me not to tease her for being unable to say the word <em> kink, </em>but I decide maybe now is not the time to poke fun at her. </p><p> </p><p>“And so suddenly <em> that </em>started appearing in my dreams, and… I mean, I’d never been anywhere outside of Horde-controlled space in my entire life if it wasn’t for a mission, never been planetside for more than a week at a time, so who was I to disbelieve the Eternian AI in my head telling me everything I’ve ever wanted was waiting for me on Eternia as long as I did exactly as she told me to do when the time came?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s starting to make a few things make sense. Like how she started out so competent at practical things, like how to wield a flogger and how to tie knots, but completely boneheaded and inexperienced with things like aftercare or safewords. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s… really fucked up,” I mutter, and mean it. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean… I never said no.” She frowns. “Except - except one time, I told her to fuck off and never show me that image ever again.” I don’t think I want to know, so I don’t ask, but she continues, so, so quietly: “It was you. She caught me thinking about my memories of you, and tried to - tried to give me that. I told her if she ever used my memories of you like that again, I’d dig her out of my brain myself with a pocket knife. She apologized. I think it was the first time I’d ever realized she <em> could </em> apologize.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Adora, I - “ </p><p> </p><p>My heart feels like something big and angry is chewing on it. My throat is tight. </p><p> </p><p>My hand in her hair goes still.</p><p> </p><p>I am literally her worst nightmare come to life.</p><p> </p><p>Her own fucking fond memories of me used against her, used to <em> manipulate </em> her, and - </p><p> </p><p>And now I can’t stop myself from crying.</p><p> </p><p>I’m a monster. I’m a fucking monster. </p><p> </p><p>And I don’t deserve her trust. And I don’t deserve - whatever it was she’s felt about me, all this time, that made her want to keep the memory of me safe when nothing else was worth protecting from the twisted influence of the Eternian AI. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly she’s sitting up, and her arm is around me.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” she says, and her voice is croaking, “hey, it’s alright. I’m fine now. It’s - it wasn’t that bad, y’know, I don’t know - don’t know what I’m complaining about, having personalized sex dreams every night for a year. That’s - that’s a pretty pathetic thing to be bothered by, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” I say, clinging tightly to her. “I’m so fucking sorry, Adora.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to be,” she says, putting her hands in my hair, pressing her mouth to my shoulder. “It’s - it’s all fine now, right?” </p><p> </p><p>She’s not fine. That much has been wildly apparent from the moment I met her. </p><p> </p><p>But that isn’t why - </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” I say again, taking a deep sniff in, “I don’t - I didn’t mean to - you shouldn’t be comforting me. I’m supposed to be comforting <em> you.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” she says quietly into my fur. And then, after a thoughtful pause, “It’s… kind of validating, that you think it’s fucked up. I haven’t - I haven’t <em> told </em> anybody else, other than… the person who took it out.” Another pause. “And she wasn’t exactly sympathetic. All she cared about was the tech.” </p><p> </p><p>I take a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>I can’t tell her. I can’t.</p><p> </p><p>This would be the worst possible time to come clean. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I say. One more steadying breath. I pull myself out of her arms, wipe my eyes, and then gently touch her face. Her eyes have a shine to them, but she still hasn’t cried yet.</p><p> </p><p>I’ve cried in front of her plenty, but… I realize I’ve never seen her cry. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I say a second time, “I’m good, sorry, I just. I didn’t. That’s a lot to process.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Adora says, quiet, almost embarrassed. “I know you… probably didn’t care about our teenage fling as much as I did. I never admitted it to you, but… I was still a virgin, when you… uh… decided I was worth your attention.”</p><p> </p><p>I laugh through my tears, cup her cheek in my hand, stroke just below her eye with my thumb.</p><p> </p><p>“I could tell. But it’s fine. I was too.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she says, disbelieving. “No way! You were so - so sure of yourself!” </p><p> </p><p>“So <em> full </em> of myself,” I laugh. “Who the hell would I have slept with? One of the other covert ops trainees? Blech. I was biding my time for someone… y’know. Worth my attention, like you so <em> graciously </em> phrased it.” I grin at her, and she grins back, and -</p><p> </p><p>There she is. Bold and beautiful and shining, unashamed of her wide smile. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My first love. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No. No. I squash that thought back down, put it away, hide it - </p><p> </p><p>But it’s out, and it burns me from within, and I lean towards her and that grin -</p><p> </p><p>And I kiss her, really <em> kiss </em> her.</p><p> </p><p><em> Hey Adora, </em> I whisper through that kiss, <em> I’ve missed you.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I start crying again, as I kiss her, and when I finally pull away there are tears on her face and I’m not sure if they’re mine or if they’re hers. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The music in here seems unusually loud tonight. </p><p> </p><p>Double Trouble pushes through the crowd to wrap me in a burly hug. I slip the report on Adora’s Eternian brain chip to their wrist implant from mine via encoded proximity transfer during the brief moment they have me squeezed tightly in Huntara’s arms. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey there Big Deal,” I say; code for <em> High Priority infodump. </em>“Having a good night?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure am, Kitten,” they growl, and then release me. “Here for your blonde little duckling?” They wink, don’t say anything about my coded message or the unexpected file transfer. They don’t need to bother confirming that they’ll get the message to Shadow Weaver for me as quickly as possible. There are <em> some </em> things I trust them for, and excellence in the realm of espionage is one of them. </p><p> </p><p>There are two reasons for my urgency.</p><p> </p>
<ol>
<li>The sooner Prime knows about the chip and how it got past our security scans, the sooner we can put more thorough screening in place and soothe his fears about a repeat of the incident, eliminating the threat of him pulling the plug on Baron Hordak’s entire experiment.</li>
<li>The sooner Shadow Weaver gets the memo that whatever tech was inside of Adora’s head isn’t in there anymore, the sooner I can start ‘encouraging’ her to come to the conclusion that retrieving her would be a waste of time and effort.</li>
</ol><p> </p><p>“How’d you guess?” I smirk at them, giving their chest a performatively playful little push. “Have you seen her yet tonight?” </p><p> </p><p>They give a rough little chuckle, and wordlessly point. Their ego is big enough that I’d never tell them this, but I <em> do </em> admire their ability to get in character. </p><p> </p><p>I look across the club at the dry bar where Double Trouble is pointing.</p><p> </p><p>Adora’s already watching me, an empty bottle of water dangling from one hand and a smile on her face. </p><p> </p><p>Something in my chest answers that smile, warming in its light and pulling me towards her. </p><p> </p><p>I push through the crowds without losing sight of her.</p><p> </p><p>“Busy tonight,” she says, reaching for me and hooking two of her fingers through the belt loop of my pants. I allow her to pull me in, allow myself to be tugged into her orbit and spin lazily closer. </p><p> </p><p>“All the stations taken?” I ask. I could turn my head and see for myself. That would require me to look away from her. </p><p> </p><p>We’re eye to eye like this, with her sitting on the bar stool, and it makes the potency of her steely eyes feel that much more inescapable. </p><p> </p><p>“For now,” she says, and if she’s pulling on my belt loops, it is the slowest, most gentle of pressure. I drift closer, smirking. It feels like we’re playing a game, a game of who will give in first and kiss the other one - and I <em> like </em> games. I like <em> winning </em> them. “Did you decide to bring it tonight?”</p><p> </p><p><em> It </em> refers to the muzzle. We’ve been swapping messages all afternoon about it. I don’t know if she worked today, but <em> I </em> certainly did, and it’s been damn difficult to concentrate on training my shading technique with the tattoo gun while knowing there’s a message waiting for me that might contain something like <em> I know you’d be such a good girl for me. I want you to feel safe when you’re in my control.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Of course, there’s also the question of my <em> plan </em> - it’s honestly a damn good thing I picked up a cover job that allows me to zone out while I work, because between fielding Adora’s flirting and trying to figure out how to change Adora’s fate, I don’t think I’d have been capable of doing anything more difficult than inking gradients onto an orange. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” I say, with a grin and a flutter of genuine nerves. “No promises, though. I’m still not sure if I’ll feel ready to try again tonight. It’ll depend on how I’m feeling after the impact play.” </p><p> </p><p>“No pressure,” she murmurs, her smile quiet and her eyes still fixed on mine. </p><p> </p><p>I’m so close now I’m between her legs, but still she hasn’t kissed me. </p><p> </p><p>“Your self-control is better than usual today,” I tease, leaning in, brushing the tip of my nose down the length of hers. Three separate senses inform me indisputably that this very much turns her on. </p><p> </p><p>“Last night was kind of intense,” she confesses quietly, her breath warm on my lips. “I don’t want to push you if - if you’re not in the mood.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If I’ve scared you away. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She’s fucking cute.</p><p> </p><p>I run my fingers up her neck, tilt my head just <em> so, </em> inviting the kiss I know she’s dying to initiate. I watch her part her lips, feel her exhale <em> hungrily.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Take it, Adora,” I whisper, our bodies so close you couldn’t fit a razorblade between us. “I want you to take what you want from me.” </p><p> </p><p>Like a striking snake she’s on me in a flash, one rough hand on my lower back, crushing us together, our mouths, our chests, our thighs, our stomachs. Her teeth are wild against me, biting and bruising, and the <em> smell </em> of her, is - <em> fuck </em>- she smells so fucking good. </p><p> </p><p>She moves me now shamelessly with her broad, strong hands, pinning me between the bar and the barstool where she’s still somehow maintaining the balance of her seating. I gasp a little as she grinds against me, growls, marks me as <em> hers.  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck. </em>Okay, so I’m not the only one who was flustered by our exchange throughout the afternoon. </p><p> </p><p>If I’d thought she was feral with trembling, barely-controlled lust when we first started doing this… it’s fucking <em> nothing </em> compared to now, now that she’s decided - </p><p> </p><p>Now that she’s decided she <em> trusts </em> me. </p><p> </p><p>And now she’s all over me, her hands, her body, her mouth, and even though we’re both fully clothed I think anybody with any sense of smell is going to <em> know </em> just how fucking bad we want each other, going to know this isn’t just the casual greeting makeout of play partners you sometimes see on the scene between friends-with-benefits. </p><p> </p><p>“Adora,” I whimper, desperately trying to hold on to a shred of my sanity and awareness of the situation. </p><p> </p><p>“Mmm?” She growls, and fuck, I don’t want to answer her, don’t want to deal with reality, but, <em> ugh -  </em></p><p> </p><p>“We’re getting the stink-eye,” I tell her conspiratorially, blurting the sentence quickly in between animalistic kisses. </p><p> </p><p>She turns her head to glance over her shoulder at the Laturnian currently fixing me with a disapproving stare. I can only assume he <em> desperately </em> wants to order a juice and thinks we’re somehow impeding his rightful path to the bar with our enthusiastic greeting. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I help you?” She asks blandly, and I can’t see what face she’s making but whatever it is makes the guy back away and put up his hands to pacify her. </p><p> </p><p>I squeak a little laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“Be <em> nice, </em> Adora,” I admonish, lightheartedly biting the curve of her weird little ear. She <em> gasps, </em> to my surprise, and I tuck that little piece of new information away. Her <em> ears, </em>huh? Interesting. </p><p> </p><p>In the interest of keeping the peace, we migrate upstairs to the loft and settle in on a sofa while we wait for a station to become available. I put my messenger bag in her lap and then put <em> myself </em> in her lap, and we go through the toys I’ve brought with me one by one. </p><p> </p><p>She’s just admiring the black leather flogger I packed, running her fingers through its tresses with the same affection you’d expect to see on the face of someone running fingers through the hair of a beautiful woman, when I sense the interloper approaching us.</p><p> </p><p>“Catra? Hey! How are you! I haven’t seen you in weeks!” </p><p> </p><p>Adora and I both turn to look at the woman who has interrupted us. </p><p> </p><p>It’s Double Trouble, of course, cloaked in one of their favourite new aliases. They’ve taken on the appearance of an Etherian with a sweet, soft face and a short purple bob, and dressed this body up in a flattering corset under a sharp blazer. </p><p> </p><p>“Swen, hey,” I say, trying not to let my annoyance show on my face.</p><p> </p><p>I told Double Trouble that their boredom with this assignment wasn’t my problem, but they’re the kind of person who will go out of their way to <em> make </em>it my problem when they start getting impatient with a job. </p><p> </p><p>On a normal mission, we tend to balance each other out. When I’m impatient, they’re slow and cunning; when I drag my feet, they push things along - if only for the sake of stirring the drama for their own entertainment - and force my hand. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t have a good excuse for why their interference is unwanted this time. </p><p> </p><p>Adora’s hand on my lower back lingers, warm and present and grounding. </p><p> </p><p>“What have you got on your plate tonight?” Double Trouble asks cheerfully, lowering their eyelids - impeccable eyeshadow, I notice idly - and looking at me in an undisguised, predatory sort of way. “It’s been so long. I’d love to play if you’re free.” </p><p> </p><p>I feel Adora tense under me. </p><p> </p><p>She is silent. Very, very deliberately silent. </p><p> </p><p>I flick a glance at her, measure the taut neutrality of her expression, then look back at ‘Swen’. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, I already have plans to play with Adora tonight, and I don’t think I’ll have the energy for anything afterwards.” </p><p> </p><p>“Boo,” they croon, canting their hips a little to draw attention to the riding crop they’re holding loosely against one of their thighs. “I’ve missed those little squeaks you make when you cry.” </p><p> </p><p>I force myself to grin even though I really want to snarl at them.</p><p> </p><p><em> Enough, </em>I try to tell them with just my eyes, but I can tell they’re having too much fun pushing Adora’s buttons to yield to my displeasure. </p><p> </p><p>Adora.</p><p> </p><p>I swivel a single ear towards her, listen to the unhappy cadence of her heart, and casually reach a hand out behind me and rest it on her stomach. </p><p> </p><p>The gesture is meant to reassure, but I can tell from the amused sparkle in Double Trouble’s eyes that it’s also visibly possessive. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe some other time,” I say, with an apologetic smile. </p><p> </p><p>“Your loss,” they singsong, with a little wink, and then strut off - likely to find somewhere private to shift back into Huntara. </p><p> </p><p>Adora is tense long after they leave.</p><p> </p><p>For a brief moment, I consider pretending that didn’t just happen, consider pulling something new out of my bag and trying to distract Adora with it, but - </p><p> </p><p>But if I’m going to convince her to go along with the plan I’ve been working on, I need her to <em> trust </em> me.</p><p> </p><p>“That bothered you,” I say, bluntly, turning back around in her lap to face her. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” she mutters reflexively, her hands falling away from my body sheepishly, like she thinks for some reason they no longer belong there. “I know it’s - that’s just how things are. You’re free to see whoever you want.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” I whisper, leaning in close, taking her hand and putting it firmly back on my hip. “You haven’t asked. Don’t assume the answer is no.” </p><p> </p><p>“Asked? Asked what?” She looks dumbfounded. I huff, smile, gently kiss her chin. </p><p> </p><p>Idiot. </p><p> </p><p>“You want to ask me if we can be exclusive. Right? But you think you’re not allowed to want that.” Her eyebrows jolt up - is she startled by my directness, or by how easily read she is? I try to calm her ruffled feathers, pressing another kiss to her face, this time at the edge of her hairline, losing my nose in the fluffy swoop of blonde hair, breathing in the smell of the product she’s used to persuade it into that shape. I don’t want to waste time making her worry, don’t want to make her be the one to work up the courage over days or weeks to ask for it.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she admits. She’s still so fucking tense under my touch, like I’ve marched her in front of a firing squad. Fucking Double Trouble. “I - I understand if that’s… not what you want.” </p><p> </p><p>“Again, you’re assuming the answer is no without actually asking me,” I tease, trying to make it clear that I’m teasing, trying to get her to unclench. </p><p> </p><p>She must be neck-deep in her own anxious swirl of thoughts, because she hardly seems to hear me and certainly doesn’t seem to understand what I’m implying. </p><p> </p><p>I take her chin carefully between thumb and forefinger and pull her gaze back up to me, away from whatever internal loop she’s lost in. I can actually <em> see </em> her eyes refocus. </p><p> </p><p>Good. Now that I have her attention -</p><p> </p><p>“Ask me, Adora. Ask me for what you want.” </p><p> </p><p>She regards me, takes a deep breath in. I can smell a prickle of sweat, can hear her heart stutter. I almost want to laugh. This fucking veteran soldier has lead attacks on at least five different missions she probably shouldn’t have come home from in one piece, has watched who knows how many people die, and she’s afraid of <em> this?  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Would you - what if we - what if we didn’t see other people? Only each other?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” I say, and I <em> do </em> laugh a little at the absurdity of how surprised she is by my answer. I take her hand in mine, splay our fingers out and press palm to palm, then close my hand around hers. Without missing a beat, she does the same. </p><p> </p><p>Mine. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Mine.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I don’t know where <em> my </em> fucking self-confidence came from, this fucking cocky certainty that this is what she wanted, that she would want <em> me </em>- </p><p> </p><p>Even if I’m not really the person she thinks I am, that’s okay. I can keep lying to her long enough to get us out of this situation, and then -</p><p> </p><p>And then she can choose for herself, with all the cards on the table, if she wants to keep me.</p><p> </p><p>I don’t allow myself the time to think about it, don’t give in to the temptation to wonder just how quickly I’ll be discarded once the truth is out. </p><p> </p><p>There isn’t time for self-pity. </p><p> </p><p>I kiss her.</p><p> </p><p>For now, I can have her. </p><p> </p><p>For now, I can pretend I’m worthy of her. </p><p> </p><p>She kisses back, startled at first and then increasingly desperate. She doesn’t feel hungry - she feels <em> lost. </em>She clings to me and I let her; she holds on to me like this dimly lit kink club is the uncaring emptiness of space and our corner of the sofa is the only ship with functioning life support left in the entire universe. </p><p> </p><p>When she finally pulls herself away, it’s a slow, reluctant move. </p><p> </p><p>I look at her, raise my eyebrows, allow myself a tiny smirk.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” I ask. “Surprised?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she says, taking hold of my jaw with a single careful hand. “You have so many other people you like to do stuff with, I just assumed…” she trails off, like she’s afraid mentioning them will remind me that they exist and I’ll change my mind. </p><p> </p><p>I shrug, flash her what I hope is a sheepish smile. </p><p> </p><p>“I like kink. It’s relaxing and it’s fun. But I wasn’t sleeping with any of them but you.” </p><p> </p><p>Her eyebrows go up and then down again just as quickly in a thoughtful scrunch. </p><p> </p><p>“Not even Huntara?” </p><p> </p><p>I laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“No, not even Huntara.” </p><p> </p><p>It’s been <em> years </em> since I had any interest in fucking Double Trouble; a steady supply of uppers is just about the only thing that makes them tolerable enough to take to bed these days, and our last drug-fuelled tumble - when would that have been, on Jantix IV maybe? - feels like it was a lifetime ago. </p><p> </p><p>I see Adora’s eyes slide past me and at something down on the first floor of the club. </p><p> </p><p>“A spot just opened up,” she says. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go.” I punctuate this demand with a kiss. </p><p> </p><p>I’m tired of talking. Tired of thinking.</p><p> </p><p>I’ve been sketching out my rough idea of a plan all day.</p><p> </p><p>I want her to take me in her hands and turn my fucking brain off for a while.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Adora seems to shed her insecurities on the threshold of the club’s first floor.</p><p> </p><p>Her sturdy fingers steer me towards the open station, press greedily under the hem of my clothes, push me into place under the dangling chain. </p><p> </p><p>“Take your shirt off,” she commands, mouth hard against my throat. I sigh with the enormity of my relief; thank <em> fuck.  </em></p><p> </p><p>It’s been a long day. I’m ready to hand control over to her.</p><p> </p><p>I pull the shirt up over my head and toss it to her; she catches it and stuffs it into my messenger bag. </p><p> </p><p>“Bra too?” </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re comfortable with that,” she says, pulling toys out of my bag. Her fingers whisper wistfully down the length of my switch and a deliciously corresponding shudder runs down my spine. By the time she straightens up holding my leather chest harness, I’ve got my bra off and dangling from one finger. </p><p> </p><p>Her breath catches at the sight. </p><p> </p><p>I feel like the whole station could be getting sucked apart bolt by bolt into a wormhole and I’d still be able to count on Adora getting flustered by the sight of my naked chest. </p><p> </p><p>“Come here,” she growls, and with great pleasure I do, allowing her to kiss the smirk off of my face and then pull the harness on. I’m used to putting it on myself; having her pressed against my back, one hand splayed across my stomach and the other working the buckles closed with dextrous doggedness, I think maybe I never want to have to put it on any other way ever again. </p><p> </p><p>“My good girl,” she whispers against me, holding my body to hers just like that. I sigh myself to softness, shutting my eyes and just letting her arms cradle me. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck, I can’t wait for her to hit me. </p><p> </p><p>She kisses the back of my neck, then runs her palms lower down my body. </p><p> </p><p>“Pants off. I’m thinking flogger for upper body, switch for lower. Sound good?” I writhe a little, rocking my hips and grinding my ass into her groin.</p><p> </p><p>“That sounds <em> so </em> good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good girl. Take your pants off for me while I get the rope set up.” She pulls her hands away, sliding them up my body for a parting squeeze of my ass cheeks before she goes. </p><p> </p><p>I wiggle out of the pants and admire her as she manipulates the pulley system to bring the end of the chain dangling above us low enough to reach. She looks different when she moves with a purpose, when she feels confident in what she’s doing.</p><p> </p><p>She’s starting to look lean instead of skeletal. I watch the play of muscles in her shoulders and back as she rigs up the length of rope I brought through a carabiner on the end of the chain. </p><p> </p><p>She glances over her shoulder at me, catches the expression on my face, and flashes me a knowing grin. </p><p> </p><p>And oh. Oh, I <em> want </em> her to be mine. </p><p> </p><p>It’s probably a huge fucking mistake, to even consider risking it all for her. </p><p> </p><p>But she finishes fussing with the rope and she pulls me close, kisses me hard, and grips me with such total certainty that I want to believe it would be worth the insane fucking gamble. </p><p> </p><p>“Wrists,” she murmurs, low and quietly smug. I give them to her and enjoy the way she touches them - touches <em> me - </em>before she covers them up in the leather cuffs. Her grip wraps around my forearm and just holds, for a moment, like I’m something precious, and when that leather comes tight with flashing buckle and the clicking of its silver tongue, it feels like she’s decided she wants to keep me, too. </p><p> </p><p>“Stop thinking,” Adora commands softly, catching my eye with a reproving lift of one eyebrow. Oops. I’ve been caught.</p><p> </p><p>I breathe in; she smells so fucking good, so fucking aroused, so calm and so steady and sure. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes ma’am,” I sigh, a wry smile pulling at my face.</p><p> </p><p>Her solid grip brings my wrists together, clips them together, runs the end of the rope through that clip. </p><p> </p><p>“Good girl,” she says, and the dizzy pleasure those words evoke is so, so fucking good. “Relax your arms.” </p><p> </p><p>I obey.</p><p> </p><p>She smirks.</p><p> </p><p>And then she pulls her end of the rope, slowly, hand over hand, and it pulls at my end of the rope, lifting my wrists up, up in front of me, up to the carabiner suspended over my head. </p><p> </p><p>Exposed.</p><p> </p><p>Trapped.</p><p> </p><p>Captured.</p><p> </p><p>Safe.</p><p> </p><p>I spread my legs a little to stabilize myself, trying to keep my breathing slow and deep. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Adora says unexpectedly. The words hit me hard for some reason - I bite my lip and whimper. </p><p> </p><p>She works the rope behind my back, then clips her end of it to a loop on my chest harness. Her hands, now free of the burden of holding the rope, roam covetously over my body. </p><p> </p><p>“You look so good like this,” she whispers. “Everybody in the club is looking at you, you know. You’re gorgeous.” A beat, and then. “You’re <em> mine.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” I whine, rocking my hips against empty air. </p><p> </p><p>“Say it,” Adora demands, and my groin pulses with need and my mind reels with willing release, teetering on the edge of freefall. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m yours,” I croak helplessly, released from feeling embarrassed by how fucking good it feels to say those words, to feel like maybe - in this moment - they can be true. </p><p> </p><p>“Good girl,” Adora says, holding me steady, keeping me where she wants me, and it feels like the floor is gone and she’s the only thing holding me up. “You sound so good for me.” Fuck. Am I making noises? I didn’t even - fuck - <em> fuck, </em> I wish she’d hit me, I just <em> need </em> it, I need <em> her -  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Please,” I whine. </p><p> </p><p>“Please what?” She asks, chuckling, sliding one hand up my front, briefly - ffffu-<em> uck </em> -  palming one breast before slipping her fingers up to my mouth. </p><p> </p><p>“Hit me,” I beg, as she decadently draws circles over my moving lips. She laughs that soft, barely-there laugh a second time, touches the tip of my tongue with one blunt, calloused finger, then pulls her hand away and pulls another needy whimper from me in the same motion. </p><p> </p><p>“Since you asked so nicely,” she says. She comes around to stand in front of me and - fuck - she’s holding the flogger. </p><p> </p><p>When did she get so fucking smooth? I didn’t even see her take it out of my bag. </p><p> </p><p>She runs the tails through the thumb and forefinger of one hand, holding the handle in the other with a loose, laughing sort of confidence. </p><p> </p><p>“Chin up, Catra,” she says - and it’s a command, not a term of encouragement.</p><p> </p><p>My clit pulses and my breathing hitches and speeds up.</p><p> </p><p>I do as I’m told. </p><p> </p><p>“Good girl.” </p><p> </p><p>She flicks the ends of the soft leather tresses at my torso from a short range, more of a tickle than anything, and I inhale sharply at the dozen licks of sensation against my nipple. </p><p> </p><p>“I expect you to be good and keep your chest held out for me.”</p><p> </p><p>I nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Good. What’s your safeword?”</p><p> </p><p>“Red,” I somehow manage to say. Words are - words are <em> hard.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Good girl. Tell me if you need me to stop.”</p><p> </p><p>And then - <em> ah - </em></p><p> </p><p>My eyes clamp shut as the touching starts. </p><p> </p><p>First her hands rubbing warmth into my chest, methodical and impersonal, and somehow all the hotter for it.</p><p> </p><p>Then the tails of the toy drawn against me, limp and whispering against my fur, grazing back and forth, fluttering sensation across shoulders, collar bone, breasts, nipples, so delicate, so teasing.</p><p> </p><p>And then she pulls back, steps away to give herself space, and - </p><p> </p><p>The first flick of the flogger against my chest is soft but firm, about as intense as someone whisking their fingers hard and fast against flesh. She hits one and then the other, left, right, easy and steady, and I cry out even though it hardly feels like anything because I’m so fucking wound up. </p><p> </p><p>Her next pair of strikes is harder, and I shake and jerk a little at the touch of pain. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly the eroticism of having my wrists suspended over my head and unable to pull down to protect my chest hits me <em> hard </em> - I’m just starting to grapple with how much of an unbearable turn-on it is when the next hit comes, even harder, and this time I fucking moan. </p><p> </p><p>“You like that, do you?” She grins darkly. I nod, whimper. “Good girl.” </p><p> </p><p>Fuck - ! </p><p> </p><p>I keen, buck my hips. Her hand comes out briefly, massages, soothes, indulges.</p><p> </p><p>And then that warm palm is gone, and I know more is coming, I know - </p><p> </p><p>I keep my eyes shut, try to master my breathing, just waiting for the next - </p><p> </p><p>The flogger hits, <em> left! right! </em>and my eyes come open again in time with the gasping, wordless sound I make. Adora - </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck -  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Adora is looking at me like - </p><p> </p><p>Like I matter. Like I’m something to her. </p><p> </p><p>Like maybe - maybe in this tiny fragment of time - I’m<em> everything </em>to her. </p><p> </p><p>She keeps looking at me like that, with that burning desire and possessiveness and care, as she slides the tails of the flogger across her palm, twists her wrists, winds up - and - </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Whack, whack!  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I make another sound, something unhinged and wild, as the pain blossoms in my chest and my nipples sear with the attention. </p><p> </p><p>She closes the distance between us, strokes my aching flesh with utter tenderness. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re so good for me,” she whispers into my ear, and I wish I weren’t hanging from the ceiling from my wrists so that I could crumble into her arms. </p><p> </p><p>She kisses her way around me, travelling from my neck to my shoulder to my back.</p><p> </p><p>Her hands - <em> oh, how I’m starting to love her hands - </em>rub up and down my exposed body, massaging gently at my shoulders and my traps.</p><p> </p><p>Fingers work under the thick straps of my chest harness, hold and pull.</p><p> </p><p>This isn’t the easy, gentle way she pulled me by my belt loops.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard, demanding, non-negotiable. </p><p> </p><p>I whimper, I soften, I yield. </p><p> </p><p>“Good girl,” she says again, and I weaken further beneath her grasp. She pulls me against her and the flogger presses between our bodies luridly like a hard cock, as eager and as promising of a rigid outline as any strap I’ve ever felt. </p><p> </p><p>Dazed, desperate, willing, all I can do is wait for it to come. </p><p> </p><p>All I can do is take whatever she chooses to give me. </p><p> </p><p>All I can do is be good and obey, and hope that I can survive the crackling storm of experience I know she has planned for me. </p><p> </p><p>“Ready?” She asks me.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” I exhale, trembling like an addict promised their substance of choice. </p><p> </p><p>My breasts and nipples are still tingling from the flogger’s touch.</p><p> </p><p>Adora pulls away.</p><p> </p><p>I try not to hold my breath.</p><p> </p><p>I fail.</p><p> </p><p>It comes shuddering out of me in a humiliating gasp when the flogger hits home.</p><p> </p><p>Now that Adora doesn’t have to be so wary of my face, she’s using the full length of it, and it sings through the air and meets the flesh of my upper back with that signature sound of a couple dozen tiny impacts all happening at the same time. The thud of that multitude is a gentle kind of pain, a kind that’s easy to take but still rattles me pleasantly out of my thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>If the first hit is a wake up call, the second one is a homecoming. It invites me in, welcomes me to that familiar place of peaceful oblivion.</p><p> </p><p>Surrender. </p><p> </p><p>All I have to do is just… give in. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing bad will happen if I do.</p><p> </p><p>The third hit is a challenge, asking me why I haven’t let go, daring me to unhook my fingers from the precipice they’re instinctively clinging to.</p><p> </p><p>And there, on the fourth one, I feel it - I feel myself letting go, feel the pain of the strike urging me into the comfortably dark path of my submission. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a safe kind of darkness, a warm kind of darkness. </p><p> </p><p>Like a perfect hiding spot.</p><p> </p><p>Like a protective layer of blankets made into a nest.</p><p> </p><p>Like a lover’s arms around you.</p><p> </p><p>By the fifth hit, I feel like I’m floating. </p><p> </p><p>By the sixth, I feel good, so good - each shout of pain is a cry of victory, because every ounce of pain I take is proof that I’m good, that I’m worthy, that I’m obedient.</p><p> </p><p>After six, I stop counting, because things like numbers stop mattering.</p><p> </p><p>I’m a tiny piece of flotsam bobbing up and down on the seas of Adora’s touch, Adora’s attention. I rise up to impossible heights in the moment when she strikes and the pain makes me jolt and whimper; I drift and skim merrily through the calm lows as she pauses to touch, to kiss, to rub the places she’s licked with her lashes. </p><p> </p><p>And then it’s back to hitting again, and ah -</p><p> </p><p>I’m not floating anymore. I’m flying.</p><p> </p><p>I’m not helpless debris; I’m a brilliant little seacraft, nimble and light. </p><p> </p><p>The storm rages and I ride the highest peaks with surges of adrenaline and cruise between each one looking forward to the next.</p><p> </p><p>Something builds in me, something magnificent and nameless, and it hollows out all thought and all doubt and all questions and replaces it all with just sensation, just obedience, just certainty. </p><p> </p><p>Each <em> thwack </em> of the flogger against me writes a transitory masterpiece inside my veins that vanishes again almost instantly like the brief and ghostly illumination from a bolt of lightning.</p><p> </p><p>Adora lights me up again and again and again, and - </p><p> </p><p>And I am very few things, but of those things I am <em> hers, </em> and I am <em> grateful.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The transition to the switch happens as I am already deep into this fuzzy, happy state of mind. She kisses me, holds me, and I feel my wrists lowering slowly, slowly.</p><p> </p><p>She says something to me, but I’m not sure I understand it. I can't figure out how to answer her, but I purr and I hope that’s enough. </p><p> </p><p>She takes my face, holds my eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Nod if you want to keep going. If you don’t nod, we’ll stop.” </p><p> </p><p>I force myself to focus long enough to give several eager nods. </p><p> </p><p>She smiles.</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, and it undoes me a little more, and I think: </p><p> </p><p>It’s unfair that the universe is made like this, that we can all be so fucking meaningless and yet have the power to ensnare each other so thoroughly that it makes us forget that there's never been a point to anything and never will be. How can any one person bear the burden of being so intensely important to someone else?</p><p> </p><p>Or, at least, I think <em> something </em> like this. It’s a surge of feelings more than it’s anything actually made of words. In <em> words, </em>what I think is:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I nod, and I nod, and I nod, and she laughs at me and tells me to be good and spread my legs and keep standing. </p><p> </p><p>And then she switches toys and brings out the long length of delrin rod.</p><p> </p><p>I should probably be more afraid. It’s a much crueler instrument than the flogger. </p><p> </p><p>But I’m not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>Not of Adora. </p><p> </p><p>Not right now.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re such a good girl,” she says, and she sounds like she means it, and I whimper and hold my pose for her. </p><p> </p><p>She lines up the length of the switch against my inner thigh. </p><p> </p><p>I watch her wrist, watch the glide of tendon and bone working in concert to touch a series of light taps to the muscle of my legs. My noise is one of approval, not pain. She hasn’t started trying to hurt me yet, and I’m insulated by my pleasant daze. </p><p> </p><p>Tap tap tap tap tap tap - </p><p> </p><p>Here it comes -</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> CRACK! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It hurts like fucking hell, sharp and stinging, and I rasp out a cry of startled agony. </p><p> </p><p>“Too much? Sorry baby.” Her hands are instantly rubbing apologetic circles on the spot, her face close to mine, peppering my cheeks with kisses. “You’re doing so well. You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” I murmur, “That hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go slower with it.” More kisses, and then - “Okay to keep going?”</p><p> </p><p>I nod, turn my face to intercept some of those kisses with my mouth. I feel her smile against me, and I smile back, dreamily, as she pulls away and falls back into position to resume hitting me with the switch.</p><p> </p><p>True to her word, she escalates more slowly this time.</p><p> </p><p>She starts with a <em> tap tap tap tap TAP tap tap tap TAP tap tap </em> - </p><p> </p><p>And ah, it’s still sharper than the flogger, but in just the right way.</p><p> </p><p>I swallow, I shudder, I gasp - </p><p> </p><p>I’m sure there’s some pattern, some methodology to how she’s dispersing the hard strikes in between the light ones, but all I know is I’m back to floating again, back to riding the waves.</p><p> </p><p>The crests are tighter, the peaks are higher, and soon, soon - </p><p> </p><p>Soon I’m <em> soaring.  </em></p><p> </p><p>My heart howls inside of me. I think I might be panting. </p><p> </p><p>She works back up to strikes as hard as that initial one, and now instead of agonizing they’re just delicious zaps of pleasure-pain-thrill, a rush that I’ve built towards instead of a shock of discomfort. </p><p> </p><p>I can’t take it for as long as I could take the flogger, though, and it seems like I’ve just barely reached the reckless, joyous heights of this sensation before I’m shaking and starting to feel overwhelmed. </p><p> </p><p>Adora finishes with one last <em> CRACK </em> that has me gasping for air, and then she takes me into her arms again and I curl into her and we both know that I’m done for the night. </p><p> </p><p>“Good girl,” she murmurs, “You’re a good girl. You’re my good girl.” </p><p> </p><p>I cling to her shirt, bury my face in it, lose myself in the smell of her. </p><p> </p><p>“Yours,” I rasp against her chest, my skin on fire, my thoughts a blur. </p><p> </p><p>“Mine,” she confirms, and I make the most debased, needy whimper I’ve ever heard come out of anybody’s mouth, <em> ever. </em> </p><p> </p><p>And I don’t care. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t care, and it’s <em> wonderful.  </em></p><p> </p><p>She somehow manages to get me and my bag of toys and a bottle of water upstairs and onto a sofa. </p><p> </p><p>I curl into her and I purr as she rubs my ears and tells me over and over how good I am, how happy she is with how I did. </p><p> </p><p>I drift on these words and on the lingering bliss of sensation. </p><p> </p><p>I feel <em> good.  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> So </em>fucking good.</p><p> </p><p>She touches my face tentatively and I lean into it with all my weight; she laughs at me, so I kiss her, because that seems to me to be the logical response. </p><p> </p><p>After a while, she asks,</p><p> </p><p>“Would you like a reward for being good?” </p><p> </p><p>Prickles of anticipation rush through me.</p><p> </p><p>This is what we talked about all day today over messages. </p><p> </p><p>Trying out the muzzle as a <em> reward </em>for being good at the end of a scene, a part of the aftercare while I’m already wrapped securely in her and in the knowledge that I’m good and that the part of the night with pain is behind me. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” I say, smiling.</p><p> </p><p>The thought of the muzzle still feels like a <em> lot, </em> but wrapped in the hazy blanket of feeling <em> safe </em> and <em> good, </em>I think I can do it. </p><p> </p><p>Hell, I think I <em> want </em> it. </p><p> </p><p>“You want your muzzle as your reward for being good?” Adora asks gently, looking for explicit confirmation. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I?” I ask, feeling… dependent, clingy. I want her approval for this, for some reason. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Adora tells me, stroking my cheek, kissing my forehead. “You were so good for me. Of course you deserve a reward.”</p><p> </p><p>I smile, and I nod, and then I cling to her chest nervously as she goes for the bag again.</p><p> </p><p>She takes the muzzle out of my bag and holds it out for me to look at. My heart starts to pick up again, the fur along my arms prickles, but… it’s <em> anticipation, </em> not <em> terror.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” I whisper, “Let’s try it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m here,” Adora tells me, “I’m watching to make sure you’re okay. Tap if you need to. You’re good. You’re <em> so </em>good, and you don’t have to keep it on if you decide you don’t want it. It’s not a punishment.” I nod and, I think to our mutual surprise, feel myself start to purr. “That seems like a good sign,” she says, with a small, excited grin. “Ready baby?”</p><p> </p><p>I’m a little more conscious this time she says it, and I actually notice and mentally remark upon the pet name. That’s… new. I… I don’t hate it. </p><p> </p><p>I nod, and then, still cuddled comfortably against her, I open my mouth and wait.</p><p> </p><p>My body still reacts <em> intensely </em> to the feeling of the rubber bit pushing between my teeth, to the leather straps settling into place against my forehead and cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>This time, Adora doesn’t go to buckle it on right away. She leaves it there for a while, in my mouth and draped over my face without being tightened, and strokes her hand down my throat while telling me how good I am, how proud she is of me. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, my breathing goes from almost-panicked to something more controlled, more regular. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to close the buckles now,” she says softly. “You’re being so good. I’ll take it off if you don’t like it, but you’re safe. Nothing bad will happen while you have it on.” </p><p> </p><p>I nod just the tiniest bit. She gives me another few heartbeats, and then I feel her lift her hands, feel the straps press tighter, come taut.</p><p> </p><p>Instantly my heart starts going faster again and my breathing rushes to match its pace. I tense a little bit, but Adora stops what she’s doing, holds perfectly still, waits and watches. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing bad happens.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing bad is going to happen.</p><p> </p><p>I’m safe. I’m safe. </p><p> </p><p>She’ll protect me. She won’t let anything bad happen to me. </p><p> </p><p>I relax again. </p><p> </p><p>“Good girl,” she whispers. “You’re such a good girl. Look how well you’re doing. I’m so proud of you.” I whine, tingling with her praise. “You okay?” I nod.</p><p> </p><p>After one moment, two moments, three moments, she resumes.</p><p> </p><p>The buckles close.</p><p> </p><p>The muzzle is on.</p><p> </p><p>Her hands drop from my head and settle down in a loose hold around my waist.</p><p> </p><p>I sit, trembling, frozen in place. </p><p> </p><p>Muzzled.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a good girl,” I hear her say, and the sound of it takes me out of the worst of the sudden fear. “You’re not being punished. You’re safe.” </p><p> </p><p>I flex my hands, remind myself I still have them free and loose. </p><p> </p><p>Tentatively, I turn my head.</p><p> </p><p>The feeling of restriction is - </p><p> </p><p>Fuck it’s - </p><p> </p><p>It’s <em> so much </em> it’s - </p><p> </p><p>It’s <em> unbelievably </em>erotic.</p><p> </p><p>I’m shaking, not just from the fear, not just from the emotional intensity, but from, on some level, the unbearable arousal. It’s so much all at once, and I feel so - so <em> vulnerable. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing so well,” Adora murmurs, a quiet litany of affirmation. “Look at how good you are. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to do anything. Just breathe. That’s it. Good. Just feel what you’re feeling. Experience it. That’s all I want you to do. See? You’re doing so well for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Bit by bit, I settle into the feeling. It doesn’t go <em> away, </em> no, <em> fuck </em> no, but - like the impact play - I learn to go with it instead of fighting it, learn to ride along with it instead of being pulled under. </p><p> </p><p>I set my head against Adora’s chest, and I focus on my breathing, and I let the buzz of everything I’m feeling carry me back into the comfortable nothingness of surrender.</p><p> </p><p>Yes.</p><p> </p><p>That’s it.</p><p> </p><p>Surrender.</p><p> </p><p>She has me. I’m hers. I’m weak, I’m vulnerable, I’m defanged and I’m silenced.</p><p> </p><p>And I trust her not to hurt me while I’m like this. To take care of me. </p><p> </p><p>“Incredible,” Adora whispers, so raw and sincere. “You’re doing incredible.” </p><p> </p><p>I take a few more deep breaths, and I rush along the feeling of almost-too-much intensity, tasting it, savoring it. </p><p> </p><p>It feels…</p><p> </p><p>Well.</p><p> </p><p>Like she said.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking incredible.</p><p> </p><p>It’s -</p><p> </p><p>It’s still a <em> lot, </em>though, and I can only take about five minutes before I stir, sit up.</p><p> </p><p>“Ready to have it off?” She asks, before I can even reach to tap her arm. I nod. “Good girl,” she says, and quickly works the buckles open, loosens the strap, and gently pries the muzzle off of me. </p><p> </p><p>I have never felt relief like the relief I feel as that thing comes off of my face.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing bad happened. It feels like a fucking miracle.</p><p> </p><p>She crooks a fond little smile at me as she wipes a big string of drool off my chin with her thumb. </p><p> </p><p>“How do you feel?” She asks, so, so gently. </p><p> </p><p>“Good,” I answer dizzily. “I - yeah. Wow. Good.” I settle into her arms in a daze, and a moment later it occurs to me to say, with exhausted honesty, “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank <em> you </em> for trusting me with that,” she says. </p><p> </p><p>I curl in closer, wishing I could cover her up entirely, to hide her body with mine from anybody who would try to take her from here, take her from this, take her from safety. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t know if I can protect her without it resulting in either Scorpia’s death or my own.</p><p> </p><p>But <em>dammit...</em> I have to <em>try.</em> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Click <a href="https://twitter.com/ArenaHyena/status/1367292163147640833?s=20">here</a> to see some art I commissioned of this chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It only takes three weeks after the night in the hotel for Adora to invite me back to her quarters for the first time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Over those three weeks, I’ve put together what I think is a pretty decent plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I run it through my mind as we laugh over steaming bowls of akbok, I pull it apart and poke holes in it and build it back up again stronger as we cuddle at clubs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think, by the time she takes my hand and asks me to go home with her, that I’ve managed to make it as airtight as I possibly can. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I keep finding myself wanting to ask Adora’s opinion, to bounce ideas off her and involve her in the planning. Some days it feels like I’ve already told her, like surely she has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then other days it feels like she genuinely believes I escaped the Horde and settled down happily to become a tattoo artist and frequent sex clubs and forget all about my entire life’s training as an undercover operative for one of the most powerful regimes in the galaxy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today feels like one of those days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s trying to learn to say a few phrases in spoken Hstraka, for some ridiculous reason, and her accent is atrocious because her vocal chords just aren’t made for these kinds of sounds and she mostly just sounds like she’s having a coughing fit - which she periodically does, because of the strain on her throat. She looks and sounds absolutely ridiculous, but she’s completely serious about trying to master the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you for this kindness</span>
  </em>
  <span> so that she can say it to the server the next time we get akbok, and every time I laugh at her she just </span>
  <em>
    <span>glowers</span>
  </em>
  <span> and tries harder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh - and this is all happening in her bed, and she’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and her collection of scars.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve known for months that she sleeps in the back of a bakery, but it’s one thing to know and another thing to have her lead me in through the front of the store and pretend to be surprised when she strides boldly behind the counter and through the </span>
  <em>
    <span>employees only</span>
  </em>
  <span> door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We pass through an aromatic kitchen and enter a narrow little hallway and then, with the wave of her wrist, she allows me into the most intimate physical space any Horde soldier can ever grant someone access to: her private quarters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The smell of yeast and butter gives way to the sharp stink of cleaning product as the door hisses open. She flashes me a shy little smile and then gestures me inside; I kiss her softly - </span>
  <em>
    <span>meaningfully</span>
  </em>
  <span> - as I cross the threshold, try to make it clear that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand </span>
  </em>
  <span>what a big deal this is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I expect her personal quarters to either be Regulation Spotless or hopelessly messy, and although they appear to be the former, the strength of the citrus-and-disinfectant smell suggests to me that she made it that way in anticipation of my arrival. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyways. It doesn’t matter that her quarters are clean, or even that she apparently cleaned them for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What matters is that I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>in them. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three weeks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All in all, it’s been, what, eight standard months since I first made contact in the hotel? Eight and a half? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’d be laughing about how fucking good I am at my job except that it turns out the best way to trick someone into thinking you care about them is to actually accidentally start to care about them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not exactly a sustainable, repeatable performance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I’m laughing? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m fucking laughing at </span>
  <em>
    <span>myself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s almost, </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>stupid enough to shake me out of whatever spell Adora has me under. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost stupid enough to give me the strength I need to harden my heart against this and just do the sensible thing, to pick back up where I left off with the plan to get her off the station and turn her over for questioning and then figure out afterwards how to get over my useless feelings for her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she leads me into her quarters, one hand in mine, and turns to me and smiles, like - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like against all her better judgement, she’s proud of herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I think about everything the Eternians have done to her, and everything the Horde </span>
  <em>
    <span>plans</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do to her, and I just can’t - I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> be the instrument that takes this hesitantly smiling woman and puts her back into the clutches of people who will take what they want from her and then discard her as useless, leave her for dead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see the way the corners of her eyes crinkle and I remember what she told me about the Eternians never intending for her to survive the events of Krytis, and I want to kill every one of those smug bastards.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora pulls me into her bed and her smile becomes a smirk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pins my wrists over my head, and my brief thoughts of </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe I’ll tell her tonight</span>
  </em>
  <span> become </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra,” she murmurs against my neck, her thigh between my leg, her hips grinding slow, strong strokes against me, and all I can do is arch up into her and try, and try, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be worthy of the way she says my name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sex, as usual, is fantastic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her mouth is so soft and so hot that it should be a fucking controlled substance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I think that’s it - I think I’m going to have to pull my clothes back on and slink away out through a bakery in the middle of the night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she holds me close and pulls the blankets up around us, wraps her body around mine and presses her lips to the back of my neck, and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she doesn’t ask me to leave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And somewhere deep inside of me I feel the soft, delicate little leaves of hope start to unfurl.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe. Maybe she’ll find a way to forgive me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Safe in the warmth of her bed, her body, her arms, I run myself through the plan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>First, I’ll open like this - I’ll say - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not working for the Horde anymore... but Shadow Weaver thinks that I am. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve iterated on this first sentence again and again and again, like I’m running war simulations in my mind, trying to find the perfect balance between the</span>
  <em>
    <span> truth </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>framing </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the truth that will make Adora least likely to snap my neck on the spot, or - worse - turn me in to the station authorities and never talk to me again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ll explain as much as I can without incriminating myself, without accidentally admitting that my decision to risk another attempt at going AWOL is much, </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> more recent than I initially told her it was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ll tell her about Scorpia, about the fact that whatever I do, I have to find a way to either fake my death or to keep Scorpia safe from any assassination attempts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(I’ve considered just dragging Adora and Scorpia both onto a small, fast ship and the three of us disappearing into some far off frontier system, but that seems more like a vid-drama solution than an actual, practical answer to this problem.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Station security is, of course, going to have to get involved. I’m hoping I can get Adora to go to the Administrator and ask for some kind of special protection for Scorpia. As soon as it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>known</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she’s a target, she’s basically safe. The only reason Shadow Weaver can so casually threaten to off her if I step a toe out of line is because she’s a nobody. If </span>
  <em>
    <span>Adora</span>
  </em>
  <span> randomly turned up dead or abducted, the Eternians could easily demonstrate that the Galactic Horde had violated the peace treaty, and then there would be big, explosion-shaped consequences. But who gives a shit what happens to some random dock worker? Nobody would investigate her death with any seriousness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unless they were warned ahead of time that it would happen, and that it would be at the hands of the Horde. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wouldn’t take much to keep her safe, really. Just one of the Spymaster General’s people hanging around her for a while, long enough to alert anybody Shadow Weaver sends that it wouldn’t go unnoticed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So</span>
  <em>
    <span> that,</span>
  </em>
  <span> assuming the Station Administrator decides to play ball, is Scorp taken care of. She doesn’t even have to know she was ever in any danger. She’d never notice if she were being tailed by a guardian angel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That leaves the question of how to make it so that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Adora</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t die, and then - more importantly - that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t die trying to keep that from happening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, first, I would try to convince Adora that it’s in our best interests to make Shadow Weaver think she’s gotten all the information she could possibly get out of Adora. It’s not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>guarantee</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she’d leave us alone, but it’s the best I can come up with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We’d set up a fake interrogation. I’d steal some truth serum from Double Trouble’s stash at Huntara’s place, administer it to Adora for real, and record me asking her every question I can think of that Shadow Weaver and Prime would want the answers to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ll tell Shadow Weaver that Double Trouble blew my cover with their hijinks at the club, tipped my hand to Adora, and that Adora and I got into a… physical altercation, and doing this improvised on-station interrogation was the only way I could think to salvage the mission. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then I’ll send the footage to her on an empty ship, rig the ship to explode with some distinctly Eternian looking tech, and try to get her to think I died on board and let her pick the interrogation out of the wreckage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And from there… well, from there hopefully Adora is no longer considered a valuable asset and is free to live whatever life she wants to lead, and if I’m lucky I get to spend the rest of my life as a fugitive, avoiding the Horde’s intelligence operations from finding out that I’m still alive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I try not to think about that part - try not to think about the insanity of the sacrifice I intend to make for this woman, about the the fact that no matter how enormous the risk I’m taking is, it still wouldn’t give me any right to expect that she would stay with me when she finds out the truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora pulls me closer, tangles her legs in mine under the cover and draws me against her chest. I try not to anticipate how much it’s going to fucking hurt when she inevitably tells me to go for a long space walk with a short safety tether. I try not to hope for more than that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve got a plan. If I’m lucky, everybody involved will come out of it in one piece. That’s all I can ask for. It’s more than I </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask for.</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Adora makes a little noise between my shoulder blades, quietly content, and I’m not fast enough to stop myself from thinking that if I am very, very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> lucky, Adora will decide the life she wants to lead happens to involve coming </span>
  <em>
    <span>with</span>
  </em>
  <span> me when I perform my vanishing act and leave both the Horde and Etheria Station far, far behind.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not a perfect plan - there’s no such thing as a perfect plan - but it</span>
  <em>
    <span> might</span>
  </em>
  <span> just work. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I doze off for a while, and when I wake up she’s sitting with her legs over the side of the bed, back to me. I make a noise to alert her to the fact that I’m awake; she tilts her head a little, and I have the strange thought that if she were Feleuri her closest ear would have craned in my direction attentively. Confident now that I won’t startle her, I slither across the sheets and rub my cheek against her side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Everything okay?” I ask, my voice raspy. I wonder how long I’ve been out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, finally turning to look at me. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nah.” I stretch, force myself to sit up, and settle in next to her, our shoulders touching. “I’m awake. You wanna talk about… whatever’s on your mind?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She regards me softly; I notice the absence of a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Not really,” she says, after a moment. I hook my chin over her shoulder, closing my eyes lazily when she reaches up to brush a strand of hair back from where it’s sticking to my forehead. “You sure you’re awake?” She teases.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Definitely,” I say, opening my eyes and curling in towards her to nip playfully at her neck. She laughs and pushes me away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So ferocious,” she snorts; I smile innocently, displaying my teeth and emphasizing just how gentle that little bite was. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s how we end up in her bed making guttural vocalizations at each other in the middle of the night while she fails for the hundredth time to get the hissing </span>
  <em>
    <span>-ch</span>
  </em>
  <span> sound in the Hstraka word for </span>
  <em>
    <span>kindness</span>
  </em>
  <span> right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should probably just stick to signing,” I conclude eventually, curled up in her lap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, probably,” she concedes, laughter in her eyes. “You work tomorrow, right?” Some of the languid pleasure leaves my body; this, I’m sure, is the lead-in to her asking me to leave so that she can sleep. I don’t actually expect that she trusts me enough to be unconscious in my presence, after all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I start at noon when the shop opens. What about you, do you work tomorrow?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If she wants to get rid of me, this is a nice, friendly cover story. I want to make it easy for her to ask me to go. I want her to take this as slow as she needs to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As slow as possible, in fact, if it’ll buy me more time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not until late afternoon.” She says, running her fingers through my hair. “We should probably get some rest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably.” I push myself up, forcing an understanding smile onto my face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the dismissal doesn’t come.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead she settles down into the pillows, extends a hand in my direction, and looks at me expectantly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A second goes by while I grapple with my confusion, and then I take her hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls me down into the bed with her, rolls over with her back to me, and tugs me close, putting my hand on her stomach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I really, really don’t know what I did to earn this trust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I absolutely don’t deserve it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow I’ll tell her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘Tomorrow’ dawns with a blossoming awareness that starts in my salivary glands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, gently, it spreads to my mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, suddenly, I breathe in and I am awake, drunk on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>smell</span>
  </em>
  <span> filling me up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tantalizing scent of hot, savory, delicious fatty oils used in baking invade my senses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My eyes flutter open, and I’m half expecting to wake up to a plate of Alwynese croissants stacked directly in front of my face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But there’s nothing but my own hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My own hand that seems to be covered in drool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I glare at the damp puddle, groggily offended by it, and then wipe my mouth against the convenient nearby pillow with a mumble of disgust. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beside me, a soft, golden hum of laughter strikes the air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Adora says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Adora,” I groan. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span> like this? Does it smell this good </span>
  <em>
    <span>every day?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins at me, more laughter - the silent kind - dancing in her eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want so badly to make her laugh audibly again. In the early hours of the morning, my defenses down, I want that sound to be a staple of my life the way the aroma of the bakery is a staple of hers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is the smell that strong?” She asks, sounding serious, even though she can’t possibly be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s - it’s so strong it woke me up.” I can’t believe how shit her senses are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she says, but her grin tells me she is, in fact, not sorry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mere,” I groan, reaching for her. “If you’re gonna make me be awake the least you can do is kiss me with my stinky morning breath.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You say that like it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault they’re baking bread,” she chuckles, allowing me to loop an arm around her waist and pull her close. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I murmur conspiratorially, tilting my head up and catching her mouth in a lazy kiss. She makes a pleased noise and settles comfortably on top of me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It really is a perfect morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t spoil a morning like this with my confession. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow. I’ll tell her tomorrow. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Over a suspiciously bashful text exchange, Adora asks if I want to meet her at the Crimson Wastes. I manage to convince her to meet at Club Salineas instead - the fewer opportunities I give Double Trouble to see with their own eyes how much more relaxed Adora is around me, the better - and we meet there early in the night when the crowd is still thin enough that the dance floor is actually visible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes two whole seconds for me to observe that Adora is nervous tonight. I can tell because, first of all, her pulse and her sweat are always a dead giveaway, but secondly and, more interestingly, she’s holding a glass of </span>
  <em>
    <span>water</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of anything alcoholic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Salineas is spotted all over with lube and barrier dispensers, but it also has a hydration station in every room. (Very important to stay hydrated when one is… physically active, after all.) The fact that Adora’s water is in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>glass</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of a disposable single-use cup means she went up to the bar and ordered it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I - fuck, I should stop analyzing all her moves, stop trying to read her mind and anticipate the perfect way to take advantage of her mental state.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Old habits die hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stop thinking about the glass of water and just go to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sit down on the bar stool next to hers, kick her foot gently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey hot stuff. You here with anybody?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora turns, flashes me a twisted, wry little grin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As a matter of fact I am,” she says loftily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? Is she as sexy as me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gives me a long, drawn out up-down look, lifting her eyebrows as if in contemplation, and I have to stifle a laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About the same.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So pretty damn sexy.” I smirk, leaning in, and then drawl: “Maybe I should wait for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> to show up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This wins me a small, snorting chuckle and a gentle shove. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s a mirror in the bathroom if you’d like some alone time with yourself,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching with the effort of not cackling at her own smartass remark. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say, smiling. “I think I’ll stay right here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For as long as she’ll have me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, but leans closer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I allowed to kiss you now?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice is sultry, but there’s… something in it. Something… </span>
  <em>
    <span>interesting. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> I have a suspicion I know what it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Asking permission?” I tease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She flushes; I listen for it and hear the change in her heartbeat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Very </span>
  </em>
  <span>interesting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Permission granted,” I purr, before she can try to deny it, and lift my chin imperiously, waiting for her to deliver the promised kiss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kiss is shy and sweet, and she keeps her hands to herself - one clutching her glass of water, one clutching the edge of her seat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re cute,” I chuckle, when she pulls away, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>pour</span>
  </em>
  <span> smug superiority into my tone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s blushing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think I’ve figured out why she’s nervous about tonight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I’m still going to make her ask for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She blusters. “I’m a - a traitor to the two biggest superpowers this end of the universe. I’m an intergalactic fugitive. I was a Galactic Horde Force Captain with a decade of experience.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh?” I grin. “You know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I would’ve outranked you, when we were back in the Horde.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” She says, and, holy shit, I can’t believe how red she’s getting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” I purr, “does that </span>
  <em>
    <span>turn you on?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I. Uh.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take a drink of water,” I murmur experimentally, with a wicked smile. “You look warm.” Robotically, she raises the glass to her lips. Right as she takes a gulp, I say: “Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She splutters, coughing a mouthful of water all down her front and - serves me right, I suppose - on some of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> front, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Catra - “ </span>
  </em>
  <span>she chokes. I laugh and slide out of my seat to come around beside her and pat her back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We should get you out of these wet clothes,” I say when she’s done coughing, as if I’m not the reason she just spat water all over herself. “Locker room?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t wait for her to reply, just wink at her and saunter off in the direction of the locker room. I listen to the sound of her setting the glass down, getting off the stool, and stalking hungrily after me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time I’m standing in front of the locker I’ve been assigned for the night, I can clearly smell the distinctive coppery, savory notes of her growing desire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She slams me up against the lockers - making a hapless, twiggy looking Old Etherian squeak in surprise, tighten his towel around his skinny periwinkle waist and scurry off towards the steam room - and crushes her lips against mine with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>growl. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shudder, yield to her reflexively. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>take, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it just feels so damn good to open myself up and let her </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still… I feel a greedy little growl of my own stirring beneath my ribs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I angle my hips and casually slip my leg between her thighs, rock up with them - and in the brief moment when this makes Adora pause, gasping, I dart my mouth around to the side of her face, lick my way up the shell of her ear, then exhale hard against it and graze my fangs experimentally along the curved cartilage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The desperate, needy whine she makes is… fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>divine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We wrestle each other out of our clothes, laughing and gasping. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At one point she takes my wrists hard in her hands and pins them above my head, locks eyes with me over a simmering smirk, and then pushes my unbuckled pants down my body by pulsing her thighs against mine in a downward motion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That fucking blitzes all thought of out my mind for a while.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sure couldn’t fucking move like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the dance floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she realizes I’ve stopped trying to regain the upper hand, her smirk turns blazing. She leans in, takes her hands away from my wrists and puts them instead on my hips, and murmurs:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Good girl.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shudder with pleasure at the victorious fire in her voice, exhale hard as she hooks her fingers around my panties and tugs them down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She crouches in front of me to bring them down to my ankles, pauses there with her breath hot on my inner thighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look down at her; she looks up at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve never seen those eyes look so blue before. I’m sure it’s something to do with the angle, with the light of the club pouring down from above while she tilts her head up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Holding my dazed stare, she smiles, leans up and in ever so slightly, and places the most infuriatingly, torturously tender kiss against me. She comes away with her lips just barely touched by my wetness; with a flick of her tongue, it’s gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Adora,” I murmur. “You big tease.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kind of want to put my hands in her hair, but I can’t quite seem to muster the willpower to move my wrists from where she put them over my head just yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re one to talk,” she chuckles, still from on her knees between my legs. She turns her head, draws the tip of her nose and the smallest sliver of her upper lip up through the fur of my inner thigh. I breathe out, slow and shuddering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Deciding I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to put my hands in her hair after all, I start to lower my hands from above my head, and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A cheerful </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes us both jump suddenly, and then the locker behind me pops open - or does its best to, with me pressed up against it - and Adora starts to laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you just accidentally open your own locker?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No - I think the club is tacitly trying to tell us to take this somewhere that isn’t a narrow thoroughfare,” I say, grandly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh. So you <em>did</em> just accidentally open your locker while I had my head between your legs.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She starts to rise to her feet; acting purely on instinct, I grasp her chin and put her back on her knees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sucks in a sharp, sudden breath, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop me, doesn’t try to stand again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like you down there,” I say, soft, and quiet, approving. “If you ever want to try that, just ask.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So much for making her be the one to bring it up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My patience for playing the long game really has diminished lately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was going to,” Adora confesses from her knees, her mouth resting softly against my thigh again as if in supplication. Her eyes flick up to me, then down, then up again. “I was going to ask if you wanted to do that tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I could smirk, say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I had a feeling, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or maybe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could tell, </span>
  </em>
  <span>really lord it over her that she’s not subtle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead I run my fingers through her hair, regard her seriously, and say:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d love to, if you… trust me with that.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do,” she says, and then rises to her feet. This time I don’t stop her. She takes my hand, twines our fingers together, meets my eyes. “I trust you, Catra.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I knew, I mean - I knew it had to be happening, I knew logically her actions could only </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she trusted me, in one way or another, but - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hearing those words said out loud, I - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Overwhelmed, I kiss her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t tell her, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so instead I put every complex feeling clawing up the inside of my chest into that kiss. I only hope she can’t interpret it all too clearly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I trust you too,” I whisper, like the forbidden secret that it is, when I pull away. She crooks a little smile at me. I dart forward and steal another small kiss, one dedicated entirely to that precious little crinkle at the corner of her lips, before I say: “Did you have something in mind you wanted to try tonight?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We messed around with power dynamics when we were teenagers - strictly speaking, I think I was mostly in charge that entire glorious month - but never anything like proper bondage or impact play. I’m not going to assume what she does or doesn’t want to do, especially if this is her first time bottoming in an explicitly kinky situation which… I have a feeling it is, even including those fucked up Eternian brain simulations. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I brought my strap,” she says, reluctantly pulling away to go to the locker on the other side of the room that the system randomly assigned to her chip for the night. I finish the half-assed (well, okay, whole-assed, since that part of me is definitely hanging out) job of getting undressed that we started. “I don’t know what else you have with you tonight.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cuffs,” I list, stuffing my clothes into the locker, “My switch, my flogger, bit of rope - not enough for a proper chest harness or anything - “ </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfortunately, </span>
  </em>
  <span>since I’m pretty convinced Adora would look great all tied up in rope, “ - and uh… I threw the muzzle in there too, just in case it felt like a good night for it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Adora says, at that last one, pausing with her undershirt halfway pulled up her torso. She turns to look at me. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to share that one, it’s so… personal.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I let my eyes settle on her, turned towards me with that soft, surprised expression of uncertainty, and I imagine her bound and whimpering and wearing that muzzle, her eyes still that startling juxtaposition of </span>
  <em>
    <span>wide</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>trusting, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I feel the arousal lick its way through my body like uncontrolled flame in an oxygen tanker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you want it?” I ask, and then immediately flush, embarrassed by my obvious eagerness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wonder what my administration-assigned Etherian therapist would have made of how intoxicating I find the idea of inflicting this specter of my childhood trauma on another person.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too bad she’ll never have that tantalizing psychological mystery to pull apart for her own academic gratification. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>know - and all I </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span> about - is that holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the idea turns me on, and if Adora wants to try it…?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, she’s going to find out that I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to share my toys with people I like. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora licks her lips, and swallows, and exhales hard through her nose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wetness trickles down the inside of my thigh, and my nudity does absolutely fuck all to hide it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” I mutter, more to myself than to Adora, and then, “That’s - uh - that’s fucking hot as hell. Maybe not a thing for tonight, since you, uh - you probably want to be able to communicate clearly, the first couple times we do… uh. Stuff.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stuff.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Real fucking eloquent, Catra. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I can’t - I can’t get the thought out of my head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, sounding disappointed, “That makes sense. Maybe not tonight, but… later? Oh, and!” Her hands excitedly shape </span>
  <b>I can talk like this, also. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh, shake my head in amazement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” I concede, trying not to admit how much the idea excites me, “you can just try it on for a little bit tonight, not as part of any scene but just to see how it feels.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that,” she says, and her blunt honesty stuns me, for some reason. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stuns me, and… feels good. Feels… healing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like I’m a little less fucked up for wanting to be muzzled, if I’m not the only one who gets weirdly turned on by it. If someone like her who doesn’t have a tortured history with it can want it too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cool,” I say, taking my entire messenger bag and all its contents out of the locker.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve never needed anybody else in my entire miserable damn life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I’m starting to feel like… like maybe it would feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> to need someone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like maybe it could feel good to need </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She finishes undressing and tosses her strap into my messenger bag, and in the meantime I give my inner thighs a clandestine wipe with my fluffy white towel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of the pool or the dungeon, we head to the hot tub. Frankly, I can’t think of another place I’d rather negotiate a scene from.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We leave the bag of toys on a little ledge and sink down into the toasty, bubbling water. We have the whole thing to ourselves, since it’s still early in the night. During peak hours, you’re lucky to get a spot in the hot tub at all, and then it’s this sort of awkward polite elbow-to-elbow situation that makes it significantly less relaxing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The masters of our little kingdom, we stretch out. Our legs graze, an action that feels somehow exciting and illicit purely because it’s underwater and disguised by the frothing bubbles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora raises an eyebrow at me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I raise one back at her, and then grin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” I say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” she says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s being shy and halting and awkward again, and I’m going to fix that, I decide, with a conversational sledgehammer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you want to be a good girl for me, huh?” I purr, sliding my hand through the hot water and letting it rest boldly on her naked leg. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her reaction is </span>
  <em>
    <span>deeply</span>
  </em>
  <span> satisfying - her pupils blow, her nostrils flare, and her face and neck and chest all turn red from more than just the heat of the water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re such a little shit,” she wheezes. “I feel like I should be keeping score so I can exact revenge.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cackle, tracing a clawtip down to her knee and then back up to her hipbone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please do. You’re pretty sexy when you get all indignant and growly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She blows another breath out her nose, lowers her eyelids.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re making it hard to stay feeling compliant for very long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re fun to wind up. That’s hardly </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles that barely-there smile and then puts an arm around my shoulders; I settle in against her and just relax. The closeness and the embrace of the hot water seem to soothe our mutual nervous excitement, and the energy between us changes to something a little calmer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What safeword do you want to use?” I ask, more seriously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably just ‘red’ like you do. Easy to remember since it’s what I’m listening for with you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure. So. Here’s what I’d suggest?” I say, leaning my head against her shoulder and letting my eyes droop. “Before we get into anything, you can start with trying the muzzle on for a bit, just to see how you like it, while you’re still, y’know, in possession of all your wits. Then we take it off and put it away for the night, and I’ll bend you over something and give you a few smacks with the flogger and then the switch, just lower body stuff, ass and backs of thighs.” There’s not a lot of protective meat on her, even with her steadily regaining her lost muscle, and that area will be her most naturally insulated for this kind of play. “Just to give you a little taste of it, maybe get you feeling a little floaty and obedient. Then if you’re in the mood for it, maybe I’ll cuff your wrists together and make you wear your strap and then ride that ridiculous giant cock of yours.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um,” Adora, traitor to the two biggest superpowers this end of the universe, intergalactic fugitive, Galactic Horde Force Captain with a decade of experience, splutters, blushing. “That. That sounds. That sounds great.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whines softly, bites her lip, looks away like she can’t bear the scrutiny of my eyes on her face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the night has only just begun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We slip out of the hot tub and towel off, grab the bag of goodies, and then head for the dungeon. It, too, is empty - it’s never really the most popular part of the club even during the busiest hours. I survey the options available to me - it’s pretty shitty compared to the Crimson Wastes, but I’m especially glad we didn’t go there tonight. The last thing I want is Double Trouble seeing this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Salineas dungeon has metal rings on the walls for clipping cuffs into and one hard point in the ceiling for rope suspension, and that’s about it for specialty equipment. It does have some of the ubiquitous shiny-pleather-covered furniture, at least. Nice, easily disinfected surfaces with enough space to fuck on. Not a bed, not a sofa. I don’t know what the fuck you’d call them, but they get the job done. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” I command, draping my towel over one of these padded fuck ledges and sitting down on it. Adora goes to sit beside me on the furniture and I make a noise of disapproval and then point at my feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>flushes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then with a slow kind of dignity she lowers herself to her knees between them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I praise, and watch her expression go glazed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How long has she wanted this and been denying it to herself because she’s been afraid of letting go of control of the situation? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull the muzzle out of the bag - funny how it doesn’t spook me, when I’m the one holding it - and show it to her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just gonna put it on you for a bit and then take it off again pretty much right away. Still sound good?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says, eyes fixed on the bundle of leather and rubber and steel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Open your mouth.” I’m deliberately being brusque because I think if I let myself get even a little bit invested, this could easily turn into something a lot more intense than either of us are ready for just yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora parts her lips, and I try to keep my movements gentle but businesslike as I slot the rubber bit between her teeth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still good?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s it feel?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lifts her hands and signs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Feels okay, you can continue. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grin and roll my eyes a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So pushy,” I tease, knowing even as I say it that my mockery is to cover for my mild embarrassment at how easily she’s handling this when just this much made me have a full blown panic attack the first time we tried it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull all the straps into place and buckle them closed, watching and listening to Adora’s body language carefully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora closes her eyes, takes a deep, deep breath in. She lifts a hand like she’s going to start to sign something, then stills, brows furrowing like she’s thinking. Another breath out and long one in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>I like it, </b>
  <span>she signs, simply, and then opens her eyes again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She likes it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And oh… oh, fuck, I like it too. The sight of her with it on is… it’s not something I ever expected to impact me so thoroughly. It reminds me of the first time I ever saw a pair of naked tits, a stolen glimpse in the communal showers and a flurry of confused intense feelings of prepubescent fascination and shame and fixation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want… to do so much more with this. I want to know more about… what it would feel like to do things with Adora while she’s wearing it, while she’s surrendering to it, while she’s making herself so fucking vulnerable to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But not tonight. Not during her first experience.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready to take it off?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods a little reluctantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I undo the buckles quickly, like I’m afraid they’ll burn me. I have to get it out of my sight as soon as possible so that this budding curiosity doesn’t grow into something bigger before I’m ready to do something about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I make my hands slow down when I pull the bit back out of her mouth. She hasn’t had it in long enough to have drooled all over herself, thankfully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s breathing hard but evenly, and she swallows heavily when the gag is out, stretches her jaw a little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Feeling alright?” I ask. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she murmurs. I hold out my hand and she takes it, and I pull her up off her knees to standing. She towers over me like this, with me sitting on the fuck ledge - the sex shape? - and her standing. I take the opportunity to kiss her stomach, starting at her navel and leaving wet, mouthy kisses down the trail of dark wiry hairs leading below. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready to get hit?” I chuckle, my lips against the seam between her stomach and thigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says, the word heavy with anticipation. Grinning, I gently push her back by the hips so that I have room to stand up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you gonna be good for me?” I whisper, when we’re face to face again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She ducks her head, her cheeks and ears a bashful pink even if her expression is neutral.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she whispers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” I correct, grin evolving into a smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” she parrots, her chest heaving with those slow, expansive breaths, her hands twitching like she’s fighting the urge to clench them into fists. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I murmur fondly, amused by how keyed up she is. “Just relax.” I almost say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not going to hurt you</span>
  </em>
  <span> but that isn’t strictly accurate. Instead, I say, “I’ll take care of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes a noise, a huff, a laugh, a hum of pleasure all in one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I move out of her way and gesture to the expanse of glossy pleather. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bend over and then spread your legs for me.” Now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I allow that flickering, ravenous desire wash over my words. I fill each one with the complete expectation that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> obey, load them up in advance with the smug satisfaction of seeing her do as she’s told without question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she doesn’t hesitate. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She bends over and rests her elbows on the furniture, propping herself up like she’s doing a plank, and then plants her feet shoulder width apart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perfect form, rigid and taut and stable.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take the flogger from the bag, drag the soft leather tails back and forth across her ass, and take enormous pleasure in watching that perfect structure </span>
  <em>
    <span>shudder. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After all, ruining things that were working too well before I got there is what I’m best at. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I run the palm of my free hand up and down her legs, grasping and cupping her ass, working her up. I’m not planning on getting too crazy, so I don’t spend a lot of time on the warmup - even though it’s tempting, with how it’s making the smell of her arousal fill the little wannabe dungeon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to take it for me, aren’t you?” I purr, loosely swinging the ends of the flogger back and forth so that they brush against her skin. She makes a throaty noise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” she says. I like those words, but I want them to be a little breathier, a little desperate, a little more messy and a little less regimented. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to treat you so nicely,” I say, with a clearly threatening curl to the seemingly sweet words. “I think that seems like an appropriate way to thank you for how you’ve treated me. Don’t you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whimpers. Oh, she’s going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>so loud. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can just feel it in my bones.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(It’s not, in fact, my </span>
  <em>
    <span>bones</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I feel it in.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lick the many tongues of the flogger across her lower back and then down her thighs. She huffs, and then says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>hit</span>
  </em>
  <span> me with that thing or not?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I smile, even though she can’t see it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Impatient, aren’t you? Don’t worry. You’ll get what you want.” I pull my arm back, like I’m about to start using the toy in earnest, and then instead come back in gently and draw it in one long sumptuous line against her cunt. “But you’ll get it on </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> terms.” Her legs quiver - she </span>
  <em>
    <span>groans</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the touch, pressing her eyes and forehead hard into the furniture. “Understood?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes - yes ma’am.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There we go. That’s better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl.” I slip into the role happily and earnestly, genuinely enjoying the rush of power and confidence as Adora comes apart at my words. I rub one last approving touch across her backside. “I’m going to start slow. Ready?” She nods; I could chastise her and get her to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes ma’am </span>
  </em>
  <span>again, but the truth is that I’m as impatient to get to the actual impact play as she is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a step back to give myself room, shake the flogger out, run it across my hand, give it a couple experimental swings. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Remember,” I purr, “You may have been using them on me, but these are </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> toys.” And then I hit her - gently, at first - and -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Fuck, I think I could easily get addicted to the sight of her like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gasps, tensing up, and then sighs shakily and unclenches herself. I watch the play of muscle across her naked body as it goes from telegraphing </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> to </span>
  <em>
    <span>more please</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hit her again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her noises are as soft and careful as my strikes, and after a while she gets used to the sensation and stops making them entirely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s that feeling, out of ten, in terms of pain?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One,” she says, and I’m both pleased and surprised that she doesn’t sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>smug</span>
  </em>
  <span> to report that, just hungry for </span>
  <em>
    <span>more. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s see if we can get to a four,” I say, grinning, and wind up for the next strike. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>THWACK. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>yelps. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“F- five.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thwack!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Three.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thwack!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Four.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take the measure of how much strength and flick I put into that last one, and I do my best to match it and find some consistency. I have no doubt she could take more, but I want to start her easy, want to give her something she can endure a few of to get her into a longer lasting rhythm instead of just a few short sharp experiences. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cut X shapes through the air, alternating back and forth between her left sides and right sides, moving up and down her lower body as I go. The distant beat of the club music offers a steady metronome to match my swings to, and I settle into a rhythm of my own. The regularity of it helps me maintain consistency - useful, when it’s so tempting to be distracted by Adora’s gasping, the occasional twitch of her hips, the shake of her legs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels surreal, honestly. I’m not sure I ever thought things would progress to this point between us even </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> she trusted me enough that I'd have been able to pull off the extraction. You know, back when I still genuinely thought I was going to be able to make myself do that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But here she is, opening herself up to me, trusting me with her body, trusting me with the truth, trusting me with her safety. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I falter a little, thrown off by that thought, and miss my mark on the next strike, hitting about half ass cheek and half air. Fuck. I need to just focus. I recover, finish up with three more properly aimed strikes, and then let my arm fall slack by my side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How was that?” I ask, and even though I’m trying for </span>
  <em>
    <span>predatory and teasing</span>
  </em>
  <span> the question comes out on the back of a gentle smile instead of a smirk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes a second to catch her breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah - it was - it was good. I feel, uh. Floaty kind of, I think. I could probably have handled more.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I snort and pat her ass affectionately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you could. Let’s just take it slow to start.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Even if I desperately want to see how that smooth skin of hers shows off welts and bruises, want to hear how she sounds when she’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoroughly </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrecked - )</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I trade the flogger for the switch, give her a couple little warning taps on the backs of her legs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is a different sensation,” I tell her. I know she understands that intellectually, understands it enough to wield them both properly against me, but there’s a difference between knowing how something makes your partner feel and feeling it yourself. Plus </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t have any fur to soften the sting. “Just tell me if it’s too much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” she says, and then wiggles her butt at me with playful impatience. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damn her, I’m laughing. How the fuck can she be so fucking goofy out of nowhere and expect me to stay in character? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be good,” I chastise, grinning, and she settles back into stillness as I put my hand on her lower back and line up the switch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This one is all in the wrist, and I’m careful with it. I give her a few taps with the short, whippy rod that get no reaction. So I add some more </span>
  <em>
    <span>flick, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time that I hit her hard enough to leave a long pink stripe against her ass cheek, she sucks in a sudden gasp and leans forward with a sharp jerking motion. I pull her back towards me with the hand I have on her lower back, grabbing her hip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where do you think you’re going?” I cackle, and the rough tug and my words combined make her release a startled, aroused little </span>
  <em>
    <span>hah</span>
  </em>
  <span> of breath. “More?” She nods. “Good girl.” I hit her again, soft, less soft, and then on the third strike hard enough to leave a mark to match the first one. This time I’m ready, I hold her when she jerks reflexively, and the combination of the pain from the strike and the restricted movement gets a drawling, helpless whimper of arousal out of her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You like that?” I murmur darkly. I’m starting to </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>much look forward to the part of the night where I’m going to get to climb on top of her and fuck myself brainless on her strap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” she whispers, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> - that’s the dizzy, desperate way I want to hear her say those words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you take a few more of those for me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I like the way the stripes show on her body, like the way they linger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like the way they mark her as </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve left bigger marks than these on other people - I don’t think these ones even really qualify as </span>
  <em>
    <span>welts, </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’ll be healed and gone by the morning, if not the end of the night - but I’m not about to leave her limping without an explicit conversation about that first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>...even though the thought is appealing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe next time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(If there even </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a next time - I really, really need to tell her soon. Plans don’t tend to work if you don’t actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>act</span>
  </em>
  <span> on them.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, no, I’m not fucking thinking about that right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can take more,” she says, hungry, competitive, eager to please. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just a couple for me, baby.” The word slips out of my mouth before I can catch it, taking advantage of my momentary distraction. Fuck. Just press forward, pretend it didn’t happen. “You look so pretty with stripes.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She exhales, rocks her hips against empty air; I watch her shoulders tense and then go slack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, she really is something else like this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unable to shake the thought that if my confession goes badly, this will be the first and last time she ever trusts me enough to do this with me, I covet every sight, every sound, every moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I find myself talking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re so good,” I say, lining up the switch, striking, drinking in the tenor of her gasp. “You’re incredible. You know I don’t take this for granted. I know - I know this isn’t easy. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>A few gentle strikes, and then a hard one, another one that makes her suck in breath. “And you’re being so good, taking this for me, letting go and letting me take care of you.” Soft strike, soft strike, soft soft soft. “Last one. Be good for me, baby.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hit her </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I probably shouldn’t. It’s probably greedy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s probably selfish, to hope this last one lingers a little longer than the others. To want to mark her, to want to leave something of myself on her even if it hurts her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She arches her back, groans, shakes. I put the switch away and then apply both of my hands to the red, flushed parts of her thighs and ass, being especially careful around the livid pink lines I’ve left with the delrin rod. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she says, a little shakily. “Are we - can I - can I get up?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I say, plopping down on the furniture and wiggling back further into it. “Come here for a bit.” With a dazed obedience, she straightens up out of her bent over pose and then climbs up after me onto the shiny, squishy surface. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I find myself wishing we were in her bedroom instead of at Salineas, but I understand why she’d want her first time with this to be out in public. Even if she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> trust me now, she’s probably reflexively comforted by having outside witnesses to protect her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any of my station security shadows in a while. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull her into my lap and brush her hair out of her face. It’s getting long now, almost too long to be controlled by whatever gel product she’s been using to style it since she stopped wearing that awful princess wig. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles, twists in my arms, kisses me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kiss back and our chests brush against each other; her thighs press on either side of mine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My breath catches in my throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before I know it, the kiss is heated, my hand is gripping hard in her hair, and I have her pinned against the pleather, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pulling</span>
  </em>
  <span> to expose a length of neck, and now I’m kissing, biting, grinding, and she’s whimpering my name, and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I want her, I want her so bad - !</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I pull away and grope for the bag, rummage around inside and pull out the cuffs and the harness with the strap-on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready for these?” I ask, my mouth on hers, my weight balanced on one arm above her, our bodies kissing even as we stop for breath and logistics. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck yes,” she whines. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I reposition, sit on her chest and use her as my throne while I take her wrists and close them into the leather cuffs one after the other. She watches me from below, expression quietly crackling with anticipation, eyes dancing over my body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then it’s time for the strap, and she obediently lifts her hips when instructed to so that I can get the harness buckled onto her. The cock juts out hungrily, a shiny obsidian length of silicone I happen to know feels very, very good once I’m worked up enough to take it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Give me your wrists,” I command from between her legs, and Adora offers them to me willingly. I clip them to the strap harness - bless whoever decided the design needed some decorative silver D-rings on either side of the hips - and then sit back to admire my work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora lies back, watching me, breathing hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doing okay?” I ask, wanting to double check now that she’s actually physically restrained in some way. She nods, gives me a small smile of reassurance. “Just tell me if you need something adjusted, even if it’s just that you’re uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will,” she says, smile growing a little wider. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I murmur indulgently, and oh - oh, what that does to her expression… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flutter shut. All the muscles in her face soften. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I pray to nobody and nothing in particular, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please let this not be the last time I get to see her like this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. I need to make this horny again before I get fucking emotional.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know, with all the times you’ve split me open on this monstrous thing,” I say haughtily, taking the cock in my hand and stroking it with slow, idle movements, and am happy when her eyes pop back open at my words, “Did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>think I wouldn’t notice it has a vibrator in the base?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes widen, her breath quickens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you really think,” I continue, “I wouldn’t figure out why you never used it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She makes a little sound in her throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wanted to keep control,” I whisper, “didn’t you?” Her face goes red and she nods wordlessly. “You wanted to play the calm, in-charge top, didn’t want to be fighting with your own pleasure to stay cool and commanding.” I press my hand against her stomach and slip it down between her and the harness, gliding two of my fingers through her slick. She gasps, whimpers, tugs at the cuffs. Fuck, she’s beautiful. “You’re not in control tonight, are you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She huffs, whines, looks at me imploringly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Answer the question.” I move my hand so, so slowly against her, making more of a point than providing any sort of decent pressure or friction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“N - no,” she gasps. “I’m - not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s right. I’m in control. And you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to be, don’t you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>keens, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and nods. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Say it, Adora,” I whisper, and still my hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want you to be in control,” she says, trembling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I praise warmly, and pull my hand up and out of the warm confines of the harness, press my slippery fingers to her lips. “Here’s your first reward for being so good for me. Suck them clean for me now.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her mouth slides open, welcomes my fingers in; her tongue and throat bob eagerly as she cleans herself off of me. Her expression is one of rapture.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to stay like this for a while, her mouth hot and wet around my fingers, but I have other things that I want </span>
  <em>
    <span>more. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take my fingers away, kiss her in apology when she whimpers at their loss, and then reach down again to the base of the toy. I find the dial for the vibrator I’ve known is there since the very beginning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here are the rules, princess,” I purr, hand on the controls, “You don’t get to come until </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>come. And the vibrator stays </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span> until that happens. You understand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” she says, a definite note of whining anticipation in her voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good.” I smirk down at her, and then I turn the dial. The vibration whirrs to life, and Adora instantly makes a desperate groan and bucks her hips, clenching her fists. I laugh, then stroke my hand up and down the toy a few times, making sure to drive the base down against her with each motion. She shakes, whimpers, looks at me like she wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>beg</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to hurry up and get on with it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” I tease, “You don’t expect me to fuck myself on your big bulging cock without any warm up, do you?” She makes a frustrated noise, implores me with her eyes. “You did this to yourself by picking such a big dick. You’re just going to have to be patient and </span>
  <em>
    <span>earn</span>
  </em>
  <span> the right to fuck me with that thing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound she makes is absolutely animalistic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looks like she’s lost the ability to form sentences. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cute. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I abandon her poor neglected strap, leaving the vibrator running, and climb up her torso.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She figures out what I’m doing when I throw one leg over her and kneel with my thighs on either side of her face - her mouth falls slack, and she starts to lean in towards me before stopping herself and throwing a glance up at me, waiting for approval.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s my good girl,” I purr. “Go on.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m already so wet, her mouth against my clit has me shaking before long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to ride her face to completion, but I don’t let myself. Instead I pull away - oh, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the needy way she whines at this and chases after me with her face is just - absolutely fucking hot and also completely, hilariously charming in some way - and kneel above her, just out of reach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then I get to listen to her pulse pick up and the metal clips of the cuffs jingle as she fights against them instinctively when I slide two of my fingers inside of myself just a few inches from her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jealous?” I smirk through a little gasp. “I think it’s time you learned you’re not in charge just because you’re wearing the cock, princess.” I hear another jingle of cuffs and creak of leather, can only assume she’s thrusting her hips wantonly behind me while I fuck myself in front of her. “Remember,” I remind her over the everpresent hum of the vibrator, “You aren’t allowed to come before I do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yesma’am,” she whines miserably, the words blurring together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I drive my fingers into myself as fast and as deep as I can, clenching around them, feeling her moving under me, moving </span>
  <em>
    <span>with </span>
  </em>
  <span>me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know I could spend more time preparing myself, but I’m impatient.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want her inside of me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I fuck myself for as long as I can take it, and then I pull my fingers out, wipe them irreverently on her breast - she gasps and bucks to be used so crudely, like I hoped she would - and then stretch across her to grab a pair of lube capsules from the nearest dispenser. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>wild</span>
  </em>
  <span> as I glide my hands over her cock, coating it thoroughly with the lube. Even though her wrists are cuffed, she wraps her hands around my thighs as I lower my hips down and line the toy up with myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>groans</span>
  </em>
  <span> as I push down and take the head, and I gasp sharply as she thrusts up to meet me and drives it another inch deeper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easy,” I murmur, unable to keep affection out of my voice. Fuck, it’s so big. “You’re so horny for me, aren’t you?” I steady myself with a breath, deliberately unclench my muscles, bring our torsos closer together to make the angle easier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I push down again, take it deeper, and she throws her head back and gasps another unhinged moan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, look at you.” I grind down, and her hips stutter up, desperately taking more, rocking against me. “You just want to be good, don’t you, Adora?” She whimpers, looks at me with furrowed brows, her mouth hanging open. “Be a good girl and make me come,” I growl, “and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’ll get your reward.” I lean in, both for the intimacy and to make it easier to take the strap - fuck, the stretch is </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the pressure is just incredible - “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to be allowed to come while you’re inside me, don’t you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grips hard at my hips at that question, makes a desperate cry, and thrusts roughly into me. I grind down into it with a shaky cry of my own, and then I’m flush against the harness and the vibrator is close enough to feel against my clit and -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me,” I command, my voice raspy and desperate, and I don’t have to tell her twice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I curl my body over hers, chest to chest, my face pressed into the curve of her neck, and throw myself into meeting each of her frantic, impossibly deep thrusts with my own vigorous rocking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each time she slams the toy into me, I see fucking starbursts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good girl,” I gasp, “Good girl,” and she grunts and gasps beneath me with the effort of holding it all together with the addition of the vibrator. “You’re so good. You’re so good. Keep going.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon enough words leave me, and all I can do is hold on for dear life as the pleasure mounts in intensity, slamming into me anew with every thrust. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What finally sends me careening over the edge is the tortured, high-pitched whimpers she starts to let out with each jolt of our hips crashing together, knowing she must be so close to coming, knowing she’s holding herself back for me, knowing she’s fighting her own body just to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> for me, to do as I say, and - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’mcoming, goodgirl,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I gasp, feeling the thunderous shaking start to seize my body, feeling the ecstasy welling up behind my eyeballs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Goodgirl, good - comeforme, </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>come</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trembling, rutting, grasping at her head and tucking my face into her neck, I come hard with Adora’s strap still thrusting jerkily inside me and feel her hit climax beneath me as I do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a while I just lie on top of her, panting and sweaty and sticky and confident I’m going to be sore in the morning, just trying to catch my breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then I rally myself, remembering she needs me, remembering I’m the one in charge here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hhhhholy fuck,” I mumble, and then - with a grimace - pull myself up off of the toy. It waggles, happy and shiny, back into position to point straight up at the ceiling. I fumble for the vibrator, turn it off somehow with trembling fingers. I absently note that a couple of people have wandered into the room while we’ve been occupied, but dismiss them immediately as unworthy of my attention right now. “How’re you doing? Was that - you feeling good?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she says blearily. “Y-yeah, uh. Fuck. Yeah. Good? I’m good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I unbuckle the wrist cuffs, massage her wrists gently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I am absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>throbbing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m gonna be fucking walking funny for the next six hours or so, that’s for sure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were so good for me, baby,” I tell her warmly, and, fuck, shit, I said it </span>
  <em>
    <span>again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(She said it first. It’s not my fault it feels so right in these moments of vulnerable intimacy.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles, makes the tiniest, most precious little noise of pleasure, and then reaches for me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I allow her to pull me in.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one who owes </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> aftercare, but she wraps me up in her arms and locks her legs around me like she’s afraid I’ll run.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I won’t run.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not this time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was… that was nice,” she mumbles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’m really glad.” I kiss her face, which is about all I can do while I’m clamped tight in her embrace like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, I don’t mind it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she whispers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think of our scenes with the muzzle, the care with which she built me up to being able to try it safely, the way she sounded so genuinely honored that I asked her to do it with me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think about the way that made me feel, and I kiss her face again, dotting her cheeks with little kisses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” I say, so quietly I’m not sure she can hear it, “for trusting me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today is the day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today I’m going to tell Adora the truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wake up sure of myself and send her a message asking if she’d be down for a quiet night in tonight. I offer to bring takeout to her place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as the message is sent I start to feel the terror mounting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My last day of being a Horde operative. My first day of being a traitor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Potentially my last day of being Adora’s… whatever we are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I want to trust her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to trust her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I have to trust in everything I’ve learned about her over the last eight months.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That she’s thoughtful. That she’s capable. That she’s intelligent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That she trusts me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sure, </span>
  </em>
  <span>her message says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That sounds nice. If you get akbok will you get extra of that brown sauce I like on the side? I’ll pay you back for it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I spend the rest of the day on the verge of panic, fighting the urge to send another message saying actually I’m too tired from work, to chicken out and postpone it another day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But we’re running out of time. Shadow Weaver has been short with me lately, and her patience is wearing thin. The brain chip infodump bought me time, if it didn’t exactly solve the whole problem like I hoped it might, but I can’t keep drawing this out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I puke up everything I try to eat, and finally give up on trying to keep anything down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m jittery enough that Perfuma sends me home early, and then I just pace around Scorpia’s apartment for a few hours instead of using the time for anything productive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I walk the long way to the akbok place, order our favourites with the brown sauce on the side, and then make the trek on foot to Adora’s quarters instead of taking the interstation monorail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m still a little early, so I shoot her a message. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wait a block away from the bakery for fifteen minutes, but no reply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The food is getting cold and so are my feet, so I head inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a cheerful pink-haired Etherian working behind the counter, and she looks up and smiles when I enter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” I tell her, “I’m here to see Adora. Is it okay if I - ?” I gesture towards the employees only door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks at me and frowns, puzzled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh. One second,” she says, and disappears into the kitchen. “Nettie,” I hear her say clearly, even though she’s whispering. “Did Adora come back this afternoon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so? She might have slipped in while we were both distracted working or something, why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That girl she left with this morning is back, looking for her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My blood turns to ice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, no, no, no, no -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go check.” Someone taps on a door, hollers Adora’s name through it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Masked by the overwhelming aromas of the bakery, it takes me a moment to find it, but -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My own scent, but slightly </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Missing the film of non-biological components, the daily accumulation of laundry detergent and vehicle emissions and dead skin particles and toothpaste. A perfect molecular copy, the only evidence of its being counterfeit the lack of natural wear and tear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” the pink haired Etherian says, emerging from the back room, “It looks like Adora isn’t here.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I don’t waste time thinking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I act.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Contact whoever you’re reporting to,” I snap, making the pink-haired woman’s attention turn sharply up to me. “Adora’s been kidnapped.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tells me, in a tone that says she clearly does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Spymaster General, or the Administrator herself - I don’t know or care which one you answer to - get them on the fucking comms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We don’t have any fucking time to waste.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bakery. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says firmly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” I snarl, throwing the bag of takeout at the <em>employees only</em> door in a fury, making her jump. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I burst back out into the main corridor, looking for any signs of my familiar shadows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where’s a fucking undercover agent when you need one?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. Options. Options. I need to figure out what my options are.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>First step: I fire a high priority message to Adora’s wrist chip that says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>THAT ISN’T ME. DO NOT TRUST THEM.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Second step: I need to find out if she’s left the station yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I need to bypass Station Security. I need to go right to the Administrator or the Spymaster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I push down the bubbling tide of panic, revert to professional mode. I’ve managed worse situations than this and come out intact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But usually it’s my </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> skin I’m trying to save. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I race through my memories of everybody suspicious I’ve ever noticed paying too much attention to me out in public. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The new dishwasher kid at Heavenly Akbok who materialized a couple weeks after I started bringing her there. I had my suspicions about him, maybe I can rush back there and corner him, get him to put me in touch with the people I need? Or maybe the older Laturnian woman I’ve noticed frequenting the Crimson Wastes who always seems to be watching me out of the corner of her eye?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, this is all just wasting time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I need to be more direct.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn around and go back into the bakery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s nobody in the front of the shop, and the tossed noodles haven’t been cleaned up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can hear them talking in hushed voices in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She might have just been trying to get us to show our hands. Or maybe Angella is her real target, and getting close to Adora is just the path they’re taking to try to gain access to the administrator.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t make sense, Spinny.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“None of this makes sense. Why would she leave with Adora this morning where we can clearly see her and then come back in here claiming she was kidnapped?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I kick open the old fashioned swinging door into the back of the shop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, fuckers,” I growl. “You’re going to fucking call somebody for me or there’s going to be blood.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see the baker tense, see the intent in her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She dives for a shelf of baking tools, pulls a stunner on me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I dodge the first shot, feel the pulse of energy tingle and tickle the skin of my cheek as it goes by, and charge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s a good shot. Ex-soldier, if I had to guess.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Too bad I’m faster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Much, much faster. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s over in a flash; I slap the stunner out of her hands, get behind her, press my claws to her neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking move,” I hiss at the pink one, “or I’ll split your girlfriend open.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m her </span>
  <em>
    <span>wife, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you fucking Horde scum,” the one in my grasp says, for some inane reason. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good for you,” I sneer, pricking her jugular pointedly with my talons. “Now shut up and do as I say. Pinky. Call your fucking handler. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>before I lose my patience.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My gut instinct is right: the second I have one of them incapacitated and at my mercy, the other one does whatever I say. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s the danger of catching feelings, I remind myself. Look at this stupid fucking situation I’m in because I let myself fall into that exact trap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no going back now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bow, we have a situation at the bakery,” Pinky says into her wrist, trembling slightly. Civilian, if I had to guess, unlike her wife. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something happened with Adora?” I hear him ask sharply over the call. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Spymaster,” I say, raising my voice so that the woman's implant picks it up from the other end of the kitchen, “It’s Catra. I need you to shut down the ports, stop every ship from leaving. Adora’s being kidnapped.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a long silence, and then, finally - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra. You’re at Adora’s place? What’s happening, who’s trying to kidnap her?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The fucking Horde, you incompetent stationer. She thinks it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She thinks she can trust me, but - but she</span>
  <em>
    <span> can’t.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Listen, shut down the ports, call back every ship that’s left dock in the last twelve hours. If we don’t catch her now, she’ll be headed right for the Black Garnet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I feel the soldier-turned-baker tense slightly in my grip, like she thinks she can fight me off while I’m distracted by this conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I push my claws hard enough into her flesh to draw blood, remind her that I’m fucking paying attention and not to try anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Black Garnet? There haven’t been any Horde dreadnoughts sighted anywhere near the Whispering System recently.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s a high speed cruiser sitting cloaked just outside of sector nine,” I tell him impatiently. “It’s been sitting there for months waiting to haul the payload back to the Black Garnet whenever we pulled off the extraction.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, I’m met by an infuriatingly long silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think,” the Spymaster General says, after a moment, “It’s time we finally met, Catra.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A Taenian?” Spymaster General Bow repeats, raising his eyebrows, regarding me calmly and sitting back in his seat. “There hasn’t been a shapeshifter on Etheria Station in over forty years.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s younger than I expected.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hope that means he’s some sort of prodigy, not that he’s some useless kid with no idea what he’s doing who was installed in the position by nepotism. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not a legally </span>
  <em>
    <span>registered</span>
  </em>
  <span> shapeshifter.” I curl my lip disdainfully at him, mirroring his body language and leaning back in my seat like my hands and feet aren’t zipcuffed together. I summon an aura of smooth certainty and actively keep my tail as still as I can so its nervous flicking doesn’t reveal my true feelings. “You’ve had at least one on board for the last year.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s a pretty extraordinary claim. There aren’t many Taenians left in the galaxy these days, and there’s never been a record of any of them working for the Horde.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’d be a pretty shitty covert ops division if we’d let some nobodies on some strategically unimportant station get their hands on that kind of information,” I scoff. “You want proof? Send some people to Residential Block A-31, Unit 12.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what, exactly, would my agents find there to prove your claim?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“An old Horde deserter by the name of Huntara. The Taenian agent I’ve been working with stole her identity ten months ago - we’ve been keeping her alive and pumping her for local contacts and insider information. She can confirm my story about the shapeshifter.” She won’t have anything nice to say about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I’ll take the condemnation with the proof of my story about Double Trouble if it will get these fucking Etherians to </span>
  <em>
    <span>act. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow’s mouth narrows. Then he taps at his wrist a couple of times - presumably giving the order to have the address I gave him investigated - before returning his attention to me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If what you say is true, she’s probably already on board that high speed cruiser. Once she’s out of the Whispering System, there’s not much that we can do aside from notifying our Eternian contacts that there’s been a breach of the non-aggression treaty.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which Horde Prime won’t give a fuck about, once he’s got the intel on how they pulled off Krytis. Once he knows what Adora knows, he won’t be afraid of the Eternians anymore and the treaty won’t be worth shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you want to stop Adora from being interrogated,” the Spymaster says, pressing his index fingers together and then pointing them in my direction, “to keep Horde Prime afraid of the Eternian Empire, and ensure that the current ceasefire continues?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. I don’t give a single fuck about that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I just want to do one good thing in my entire miserable life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I want to save Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly,” I say. Let him think my motives are grand and meaningful and noble. Let him think I care about the ceasefire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The ancient minefields of the Whispering System have kept Etheria Station safe from both the Galactic Horde and the Eternian Empire for centuries,” he says, threading his fingers together and leaning forward on his hands. “If Adora really is out of the system, why should I risk losing more of my agents going after her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I laugh at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you’re going to try to bluff a Feleuri,” I purr, “you’re going to have to learn to get better at controlling your heart rate, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spymaster.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His carefully schooled face cracks; he offers me a smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Let’s agree, then. I won’t try to act like Adora means nothing to me if </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes are too compassionate, too intelligent, too piercing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My ears go back against my head before I can stop them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t matter,” I say quietly. “What matters is that we fucking get her back. Once they’re done getting the information out of her, they’ll probably execute her to make a big statement to the Eternians and to all the Horde soldiers thinking about trying to defect. I can’t let that happen.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” He raises his eyebrows at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question makes me want to leap across his pristine desk and rip his throat out, which I am completely confident that I could, zipcuffs or no.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you, my therapist?” I snarl. “Listen, this is what I’m offering you, take it or leave it - you help me get Adora out of there, and I’ll give you </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Every code, every secret, every agent’s identity. Total cooperation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And why shouldn’t we just throw you in a cell now and get that information out of you with veriathilin?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you soft-spined stationers don’t use truth serum. <em>Everybody</em> knows you have some kind of moral hangup about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We don’t normally, no. I’m sure you’re aware that repeated exposure to veriathilin has a high risk of serious damage to the victim’s neural pathways.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” I roll my eyes. I try not to think about Huntara with a fresh twist of guilt; I fail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe Spymaster Bow’s mind goes in the same direction mine does, because he glances down to read a new incoming message on his wrist implant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He frowns thoughtfully, and his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good news, or bad?” I drawl. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Both,” he says. “The woman found in A-31-12 was quick to confirm your story about the Taenian. The state she was found in…” he fixes me with a look, and his eyes harden. “Whatever happens with Adora, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> answer for what you did to her.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can only smile toothily at that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I’m alive for there to be consequences at the end of all of this, well. Hard to complain too much about that, I suppose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I assume that was the good news. What’s the bad news?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His frown sharpens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Before I tell you - you </span>
  <em>
    <span>betrayed </span>
  </em>
  <span>Adora. Why should we trust you to help us get her back?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need me,” I point out quickly. “You wouldn't get within a lightyear of the Black Garnet without me, let alone on board and able to get to the prisoner decks. It would be a suicide mission if you tried to do it without me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. But an Etherian would have to be in charge of the mission.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do</span>
  </em>
  <span> you actually care about Adora? Because that would be a pretty quick way to guarantee we fail.” He opens his mouth to protest. “Listen - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bow, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is it? - the only reason I’m sitting here talking to you is because I fucking decided to. You couldn’t catch me, no matter how hard you tried, and it’s because I’m fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> at what I do. I figured out about three seconds into you changing the subject that the bad news you aren’t telling me is that your people just confirmed Adora left the station hours ago, probably caught on vid leaving with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So time is fucking ticking. You have two choices.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lean forward, fix his eyes hard with mine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Either you trust me, or you sentence Adora to death.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We blast out of Etheria Station’s artificial gravity well as our ship clatters miserably around us.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This thing is a piece of junk!” I scream over the sound of its mechanical wailing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense,” the Captain laughs, slapping switches and twisting dials, his face lit up in its expression of madness by a dozen frantically blinking red lights. The Dragon’s Daughter 5E9 shudders and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>THUMPS </span>
  </em>
  <span>as its secondary engine kicks in. “She’s the finest vessel in the system. Don’t let your eyes deceive you!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I clutch the arms of my seat, holding back a snarling commentary that it’s actually my </span>
  <em>
    <span>stomach</span>
  </em>
  <span> that came to this conclusion, not my eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said it yourself,” Spymaster Bow says beside me, wearing entirely too enthusiastic of a grin, “we can’t roll up in a ship obviously associated with the Station’s authorities.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When I suggested we commandeer a mercenary ship as cover, I meant, you know - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> one,” I say, through gritted teeth, as I’m thrown back into my chair for the tier two acceleration. I turn my eyes nervously to the screen. “Just how fucking fast were you planning on taking this thing through the Whispering System? You do understand that mines </span>
  <em>
    <span>explode</span>
  </em>
  <span> when you hit them, right?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Captain laughs, flat white Eternian teeth flashing below his thick, excruciatingly styled moustache. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could find my way through these minefields with my eyes closed and one hand behind my back,” he boasts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t,” I say quickly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Starting to get nervous, Horde Scum?” Commander Glimmer teases, looking entirely comfortable in this deathtrap of a ship. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m starting to think I’ve signed up to try to infiltrate a dreadnought full of intelligence operatives with a crew of fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>maniacs.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I grimace as a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>ping</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounds from somewhere inside the hull off to my left. “I still don’t understand why you both insisted on coming. If Etheria Station loses both its Spymaster General </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> a Junior Commander to some drunken moron flying a ship at top speed through the Whispering System, it’ll throw your whole administration into chaos.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bow is the best marksman the station has ever seen,” the Commander says proudly. “He’s the only person I’d trust with the kind of precise shooting your plan calls for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And I resent the implication that there is one ounce of liquor in my body,” the Captain says, horrifyingly taking his eyes off the dashboard to twist around and glower at me. “I’ll have you know I have a deep personal affection for Adora and I take this task </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> seriously.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How the hell would you know Adora?” I ask, and then immediately regret it, because I’d like him to stop talking to me and get back to <em>steering,</em> please. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I had the distinct honor of being the pilot who brought her from Dryl Station to her safe haven on Etheria,” he says, smiling brightly. “We forged a deep, brotherly bond over that long journey. I will never forget those days in her company.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I snort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Funny, she’s never once mentioned a ‘Captain Seahawk’ to me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, as you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she is a very </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>serious woman. As talkative as a bowl of soup, some days!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes but don’t contradict him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think of her subtle, suppressed laughter, of the youthful sparkle of mischief in her eyes that has resisted being fully tamed even after ten long years of active duty and the burden of leadership. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think of her teasing, her blushing, her kisses first thing in the morning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Captain Seahawk clearly doesn’t know the Adora that I know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I try not to hate him too much for daring to think otherwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After all, my life</span>
  <span> is in his hands now. By extension, so is <em>hers.</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I steel myself and clench my jaw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t give a fuck what your motives are,” I mutter. “As long as you get me to the Black Garnet and then get us the fuck out of there again as fast as possible, you could be doing this to try to impress your favourite hooker for all I care.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” He looks startled, and then thoughtful. “Do you think this is the sort of thing that would impress a woman?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It absolutely will be,” Bow declares grandly, leaning forward in his seat to casually take the Captain’s chin and point his face back towards the dashboard, “If you manage to pull it off without any of us getting killed.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The mercenary captain barks a laugh at that, then raises his first in the air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Onwards, then!” I see his eyes settle hungrily on another series of switches, and think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh no </span>
  </em>
  <span>right as he flicks three of them in a brightly aggressive sequence. I hear the tertiary acceleration drive sputter and then honk and then whir to life. “To the Black Garnet!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I am going to fucking die. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re here,” I say, two days of flying later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Nothing’s showing up on the scanners,” Seahawk says, frowning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Turn the engine off and open comms,” I command, not gratifying his question with a response. I’ve learned to do a lot of that over the last forty-eight hours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not happy to see that he turns and checks with Bow - who nods once, approvingly - before following my order. But he does what I say, and that’s what matters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s no way,” Glimmer mutters, coming to stand behind me, staring at the monitor. “You can’t cloak a ship the size of a dreadnought. That’s impossible.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not with Etherian technology.” I straighten up, running a hand through my hair, rubbing my eyes. I haven’t slept much - or very well - over the last two days, but I’m determined to find every bit of weakness and hesitation in myself and banish it. I can’t falter. I can’t fail. “Captain. Switch off the scanners and the navscreen, and bring us sixty-five degrees to port.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As you say, Catra,” the man says, clearly intrigued. With the engines off, everything seems quiet, so quiet. The dashboard goes dark, and the bright glow of sensor input and starmaps flicks off, leaving nothing but the broad clear front windshield of the craft, unobstructed. There’s nothing there but open, empty space. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Commodore,” I say, absently, as the ship slowly spins to the prescribed angle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” Seahawk asks, without taking his eyes from the vast expanse of space.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My rank.” I straighten up, settle into character, throw my shoulders back, and fix a haughty sneer onto my face. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Commodore.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I say this, the outline of something interrupts the clean line of the windshield’s rightmost edge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Inch by inch, the Horde dreadnaught comes into view. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Undetectable to the vast majority of sensor equipment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bristling with defensive weaponry so secret I hardly understand half of it myself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Large enough to house the entire population of Etheria Station in a third of its prisoner holding cells. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A drifting fortress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A malevolent ghost, gliding from system to system, leaving tragedy and death in its wake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Black Garnet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“May the stars guide me safely,” Seahawk hisses under his breath. Haven’t heard that particular superstitious counter-curse in a few years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I steady myself with a long, slow inhale.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We’re going to need a lot more than stars to survive this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The vidscreen leaps to blinding wakefulness in front of us, as if putting itself aggressively between our eyes and the ship hanging before us.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Identify yourselves immediately or be shot down,” the intelligence officer, dressed in crisp uniform whites, snaps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Commodore Catra, returning from duty. Code sequence five twelve seven seven eight four, authorization Red Seven.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The officer’s face drops, and then she snaps to attention, saluting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Commodore, sir, welcome back. I - your craft is - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“At ease, Corporal.” I roll my eyes condescendingly at her. “I had to hire a ship to get off that fucking backwater station undetected. Requesting clearance for mercenary vessel Dragon’s Daughter 5E9, miscellaneous sloop-class, category D.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is the D for Dragon? Or for Daughter?” Captain Seahawk whispers. I shoot him a glare. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Commodore, the vessel has been cleared for entry. Please proceed to your assigned gate. Again, my sincere apologies for - “ I reach in front of Seahawk and cut the comm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re kind of an asshole, did you know that?” Commander Glimmer says, as soon as we’re off the line. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I flick my ear at her in annoyance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s expected of me. We don’t coddle people in the Horde. Compassion is weakness. Weakness is a flaw. Flaws aren’t permitted. Ipso-fucking-facto, get off my dick and let me run this mission like you said you would. You know your role. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking try to improvise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Roger that, Commodore Asshole,” Glimmer says, with a grin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I bristle, want to rip her a new one about being fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>glib</span>
  </em>
  <span> knowing everything that’s on the line. But she doesn’t know, does she? She’s never seen an interrogation on the Black Garnet before. She doesn’t know what Adora’s been going through while we’ve been slowly catching up to the significantly faster ship Double Trouble had access to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take us in, Captain,” I mutter, determined to ignore her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As we approach the docking bays, the Black Garnet fills and then obscures the entire viewport. At my command, the other three pull on their helmets, completing their disguises as common mercenary thugs. I check, double-check, and triple-check that Bow has the two seemingly identical blasters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sees me looking, pats the one on his left in what I can only assume he thinks is a reassuring gesture.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m a clean shot. Best in my squad.” I don’t say anything, just clench my jaw, take another deep breath, try not to stop to think about how insane this plan is. He reaches out, squeezes my shoulder. “I promise. We won’t leave you there.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I tense. He gets the message and takes his hand off of me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Focus on Adora,” I say, without looking at him. “If it’s a choice between the two of us, get her out of there. I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns his face towards me; I can’t see his eyes through the faceplate of the helmet, but I can only imagine he’s staring at me again with that too-knowing scrutiny. It seems like he’s about to say something, but we’re interrupted as the ship jerks and shudders and comes to a stop. There’s a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>clang</span>
  </em>
  <span> as the dock’s automatic gangplank extends out to meet with the ship’s doors.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alright. Here we fucking go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seahawk, stay with the ship. You two, stick with me and do <em>not</em> wander.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They already know this, but I can’t stop myself from reminding them one last time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then the doors open, and I step out onto the gangplank and into the familiar dim lighting of the Garnet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A cadet is waiting for me nervously. They salute - I walk past them, ignoring them entirely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C - Commodore,” they splutter, following after me, looking nervously at my two decidedly non-Horde followers. “I - Cadet Saz, reporting for - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t care, Cadet. Dismissed.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take the two Etherians to the lift tubes and then up to the habitation decks. Nobody dares stop me or question me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not the most senior field agent in the entirety of the intelligence division because everybody older than me <em>retired. </em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m the only one who’s <em>survived</em> long enough to make it this far, and that, at least, has earned me some measure of respect.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least… from </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> people. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Catra!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Double Trouble squeals in delight, as I turn down the corridor that will take us to the fastpath between us and the prison decks. “Why, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kitten, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I didn’t expect to see you here so - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Terror floods their face as I close the distance between us, grab the front of their shirt, and slam them against the corridor wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking piece of shit,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I snarl, smelling the metallic stink of their blood hit the air. “You ditched me on that floating junk heap. I have had the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> two fucking days of my life. Do you know how hard it is to find a mercenary stupid enough to take you into Horde Space these days?” They scrabble their claws against my arm, wheezing something about not being able to breathe. “Tell me at least you got the payload delivered? I swear on Horde Prime’s third eye if you botched this whole eight month undercover operation because you got </span>
  <em>
    <span>bored, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ll - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“S’fine! Relax!” They squeak, and I release their throat with a furious growl, flicking my wrist and leaving spatters of purple blood on the metal floor. They raise a fluttering hand to their neck and touch it delicately. “Such </span>
  <em>
    <span>dramatics!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t even have the decency to tell me. Are you really so desperate for Shadow Weaver’s approval that you’d steal the win out from under me after </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>did all the heavy lifting to make her trust me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Darling, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you know it’s nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>they say, lifting their fingers and gasping lightly at the blood they find there, as if this isn’t a tiny scratch compared to some of the shit we’ve been through together. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> my policy is to always look out for number one. You were being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfectionist. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You didn’t need to wait until she was ready to propose. No sense in letting the fruit rot on the vine when higher powers are impatiently whispering about how much easier we non-clones would be to handle if they’d just chip us all.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I should have known. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I should have known they’d get spooked by the threat to their own independence. They’ve always considered themself above the rest of us, untouchable because of their ability to so easily go incognito. If they needed out of the Horde, they’d just leave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But working for Shadow Weaver serves some sort of purpose for them, and I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that they’d take the initiative to finish the job when their freedom was at risk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could have had the decency to </span>
  <em>
    <span>warn</span>
  </em>
  <span> me,” I hiss. I don’t so much as look at the Etherians behind me. I don’t want to know what they think of this little performance, even if their faces are hidden. “I look real fucking stupid, coming back to the Garnet in a damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>D-class</span>
  </em>
  <span> mercenary sloop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>They laugh, obviously delighted. “Please tell me it’s still in dock. I’m going to have to go down and see that with my own eyes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I fucking did, and it was awful. I thought I was going to die. So the least you could do is </span>
  <em>
    <span>apologize.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kitten, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry,” they tease, and then, just for a moment, fall deadly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deadly</span>
  </em>
  <span> serious. “Truth be </span>
  <em>
    <span>told, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I was afraid you might be compromised. Your little moments of intimacy had become </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> convincing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I falter. Then, riding the wave of my fear and fury, I throw my head back, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really think I’d fall for a target? Wow. Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wow, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Double Trouble. Honestly, I’m kind of insulted!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They smile at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span> smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me for giving offense, kitten. I did feel a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span> bad, robbing you of her magnificent reaction when she discovered your betrayal.” My stomach falls out; I feel something building, sick and bitter, in the back of my throat. I know what’s coming, but I can’t stop it from happening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble shifts into a perfect imitation of Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her furrowed brow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes bright with tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lips curled in disgust, in hatred, in - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Heartbreak. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra,” they gasp tearfully, wearing Adora’s face. “How could you? I trusted you. I - “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Enough,” I whisper, and then, when they don’t immediately change back, yell: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Enough!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The devastated expression on Adora’s face slides into a wide, cruel smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re so touchy,” they cackle with her mouth, reaching out and running her fingers through the fur of my face. I fight down the vomit I feel pushing its way up my throat. “But then, you always </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> been.” With a wink, they slide back into their usual appearance. “Anyways, darling, I’m going to go look at the ship you came in on, I’m so curious. Oh, and these are your mercenaries? How sweet, giving them a tour, are you? Well! Don’t take too long. Shadow Weaver’s got our traitorous little Force Captain set up in interrogation room… mm, which one was it?” They pause, and I know, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> they see my ears crane forward a hair before I can control the urgency I feel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their smile is a dagger, and they drive it deep into my chest with obvious relish.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” they chirp, as if they’ve suddenly remembered. “Interrogation room Fifty-Six B.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Do they suspect why I’m really here? Do they know the mercenaries with me aren’t really mercenaries? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I’ll go watch,” I say, as casually as I can.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Enjoy,” they purr, and turn away, heading past me and making for the lift tubes to the docking bays. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stand for a moment in contemplative silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If they know, are they going to report me? Try to stop me? Let me try to do it, just for the fun of seeing what kind of chaos it creates? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Have they </span>
  <em>
    <span>already </span>
  </em>
  <span>alerted Shadow Weaver to the fact that I’m a traitor? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Am I walking right into a trap?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment comes and goes, and I decide I don’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> for moments. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We have a plan. We stick to the plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We get Adora out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No matter what. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We breeze through four security checkpoints before anybody even stops us.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold,” the guard says, scrambling to her feet. “What the hell are those outsiders doing on this deck? They don’t have security clearance to be here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They don’t need it,” I say, frowning impatiently up at the hairy Junovian. “They’re with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You may get to play fast and loose with the rules when you’re out on assignment,” the guard growls, displaying her jutting fangs, “but not here. I’m going to have to call someone to escort those two back to their ship. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking bringing them this far into a secure sector of the ship.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Major,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I huff, flicking my eyes over the rank insignia on her chest, “you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to do that. The Circular Dawn Mercenary Fleet is a critical ally for a number of our undercover operations, and I’m not letting some paper-pushing bureaucrat jeopardize our relationship with them because you don’t understand what it is we </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you call me?” The Major snarls, putting a hand on her stunner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pretty sure I called you </span>
  <em>
    <span>Major,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I say, sweetly. “And just because I’m not in uniform right now doesn’t mean I don’t outrank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then - only then - does she realize who she’s talking to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I guess I don’t really spend much time on board the Garnet these days if I can help it. Commodore Catra must just be a name to most of these lackeys, a piece of text on a vital report or a materials requisition, and not some grubby Feleuri in three day old clothes without a mark of rank anywhere on her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C - Commodore,” the big woman says, and abruptly salutes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s more like it. Now sit the fuck back down and do your </span>
  <em>
    <span>job</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of wasting my time. I had to promise the mercenary fleet payment for my transport that I’m not technically authorized to release. I’m bringing them to talk to Shadow Weaver.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sh - Shadow Weaver is currently - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In an interrogation. I know. Like I said, Major - go back to doing your job and let me do </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gawps, salutes again, and then sits. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stride past the security checkpoint.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We’re almost there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart thumps hatefully inside of me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adrenaline courses through me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patience. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Patience. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stick to the plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We pass into the prison decks, take another series of lift tubes down to interrogation block B.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wrinkle my nose, trying not to inhale too deeply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This part of the ship always smells like blood and burning hair no matter how often they make the cadets scrub the interrogation rooms. I try not to come here if I don’t have to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra,” Commander Glimmer whispers, the beginnings of a question in her voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quiet,” I snap. “We’re almost there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t dare say more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cameras are watching us from every corner, recording our every word - have been since we stepped on board. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver is nothing if not </span>
  <em>
    <span>intensely </span>
  </em>
  <span>dedicated to the practice of surveillance, even among her own rank and file. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m hoping that works against her for once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fifty-Four.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fifty-Five.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Here it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Interrogation room Fifty-Six. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A red light over the door indicates that the room is in use. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I straighten my back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grit my teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know there’s no preparing myself for what’s inside that room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lift my hand to the palm scanner, my heart racing wildly, the stench of blood so strong in my nose that I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door unlocks, and slides open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I gesture for the Etherians to wait, and then I step inside.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’ve never smelled Adora’s sweat in such high concentrations before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s so strong I nearly gag, nearly take a step back before I even register what I’m seeing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Catra,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shadow Weaver croons disapprovingly. “I see you finally decided to join us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d have been here sooner if fucking Double Trouble hadn’t - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Save your </span>
  <em>
    <span>whinging,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she sneers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She says something else, but I don’t really hear it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a step into the room, force myself to look at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not Shadow Weaver.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Adora. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her chin is propped up on her chest; her white undershirt is stained brown in some patches, crimson in others, and pink, now, where blood and drool have pooled between her breasts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hangs limply, suspended from her wrists, and doesn’t look up as I enter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her head has been freshly shaved. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks peeled raw like this, I’m so used to the sight of her shaggy grown out hair by now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think, for one horrifying moment, that I’m too late - that she’s already dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But her chest rises, just barely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Shadow Weaver snaps, and I give her only the briefest of glances. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What have we learned so far?” I ask, pretending I just don’t give a shit about whatever she just asked me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora whimpers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My body tenses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kill her, </span>
  </em>
  <span>my blood screams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill her for doing this to Adora. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I fight it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes every drop of my willpower to keep my claws sheathed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve covered a lot of ground already, naturally, since you took so </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I scoff and roll my eyes, because I know that’s what I would normally do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Don’t stare at Adora.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t stare at Adora. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, don’t let me stop you,” I mutter, pulling up a grungy stool and flopping down, crossing my legs. “I’m just here for my own curiosity.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t recall </span>
  <em>
    <span>granting</span>
  </em>
  <span> you permission to - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just spent nearly a year of my life on this extraction,” I drawl, cutting her off. I see her straighten up, offended, furious. I’ve never seen her face behind that awful breather mask, but I’ve learned to read her body language with </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredible</span>
  </em>
  <span> detail over the last two decades in her care. I hold up both my palms placatingly. “I’ll keep quiet! Promise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kill her. Rip her throat out, let her bleed whatever poisonous blood is swimming in that body of hers down into the drains, bleed her, bleed her until she’s even with every drop of blood Adora has shed and then some - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I clench my jaw tight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. Stick to the plan. Keep calm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver studies me, the rasp of her breather keeping time with the labored wheeze of Adora’s lungs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” she sighs impatiently, waving a hand at me. “I’m wasting this dose of serum standing here talking to you while it wears off. Adora,” she snaps, turning back to the prisoner. “Wake up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora grunts, but doesn’t lift her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Insolent child,” Shadow Weaver huffs. I’ve heard her call people twice my age </span>
  <em>
    <span>child. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t think anybody knows how old she really is. I’m not even really sure what </span>
  <em>
    <span>species</span>
  </em>
  <span> she is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She crosses the room, reaches for a control switch, and I brace myself for what I know is coming. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Electricity crackles and snaps down the wrist restraints, and Adora </span>
  <em>
    <span>jolts</span>
  </em>
  <span> upwards, </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then - and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then </span>
  </em>
  <span>- her eyes meet mine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her pupils are blown so wide I can barely make out the smallest sliver of grey around them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The whites of her eyes look pink from here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lips are split, sticky with dried blood, and her teeth are as stained with it as her ruined shirt is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Catra,” she gasps, and I bite my own tongue to keep the furious tears from rushing to my eyes. Her voice is dazed, drugged - and terrified. “Catra,” she says again, “Help me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My limbs shake with the effort it takes to stay silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your inhibitions don’t mean shit when veriathilin is pumped into your bloodstream. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You forget why you need to lie or hold anything back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her begging is not a deception, not a ploy, not a test.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>It's real.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Guilt curdles inside of me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Please, forgive me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Please, please, please forgive me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I say nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Help is not </span>
  <em>
    <span>coming, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Force Captain,” Shadow Weaver says sharply. “Focus. We were talking about Krytis.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Krytis was my fault,” Adora says blearily, still looking right at me. Her voice sounds awful. I wonder when the last time they gave her water was. “I killed all those people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we’ve established that,” Shadow Weaver mutters, sounding bored, one hand still hovering over the controls for the electricity. “Tell me what happened in the lead up to the weapon being detonated. Did you receive orders from your Eternian AI chip in advance of your carrier landing on the planet?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wish she’d stop looking at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I can’t look away. I can’t deny her that, if maybe - maybe it’s making this easier for her, to be telling </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead of the walking nightmare on the other side of the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She - she didn’t say anything until we were on the planet. I just remember… we heard there was suspicious Eternian activity, and then the recon said they’d left the planet undefended, and it was - it was a critical resource, so Baron Hordak was ordered to secure it - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You don’t need to tell me why you were deployed there. When did the AI speak to you on Krytis?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When I - when I was leading my squadron - “ tears pour down her face. She chokes on a heavy sob. “My squadron is dead. They’re dead and I killed them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Again, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> established this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Focus.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You - you don’t understand. It wasn’t the weapon that did it. It was me. I killed them with my own hands. I shot them. I - they </span>
  <em>
    <span>trusted</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, Catra, they - “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver hits the controls and Adora spasms again as the electricity ricochets recklessly through her body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can smell burning flesh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I haven’t vomited from the sight of an interrogation since I was eleven or twelve years old, but I think I might be about to break my clean streak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look at </span>
  <em>
    <span>her,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Shadow Weaver snarls, stepping in close, grabbing Adora’s sagging chin and tilting it up violently. “Look at </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You led your squadron to your appointed mission. When the AI gave you instructions, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> they?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“L - Light Hope said there was something important on this planet I needed to find. That if I found it for the Eternians, I’d get to go home. It was the final test. That I had to get to the heart of the planet.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did you find your way to the weapon?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She gave me instructions. But I - I wasn’t able to sneak away. I heard Lieutenant Cobalt call my name, and - and my arm moved on its own, and my finger pulled the trigger. I - I don’t think it was me, but I’m not sure. I’m not - I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> it wasn’t me who did that, I - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then - and then Light Hope she - she activated the second implant. The one that - that makes everything go crazy, my heart, my reflexes - the - all the h - hormones or adrenaline or - I don’t - I don’t understand it, I’m sorry, I’m - I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry, I - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quit your </span>
  <em>
    <span>blubbering,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shadow Weaver spits, releasing Adora’s chin with visible disgust and wiping her grey, knobbled hand clean on her uniform. “We know how your secondary implant works now, and we’ve got </span>
  <em>
    <span>plenty</span>
  </em>
  <span> of footage of it in action by this point. I don’t need you to explain your simpleton’s grasp of it. Anything we don’t already know, we’ll learn when we pull it out of your thick head and pick it apart.” This seems to retrieve her momentarily from her bad mood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My tail lashes wildly behind me at the way she brightens. She's fucking <em>amused</em> at the thought of cutting Adora open and getting a look at the pieces of Eternian tech still left behind in her brain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think back to our fight with those Iwans on the station. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>second </span>
  </em>
  <span>implant, one that kicks her adrenal system into some kind overclocked mode - that explains what I saw that night, what I </span>
  <em>
    <span>smelled. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What happened after that? You killed the other members of your squad - I assume for trying to stop you from following the AI’s directions to the heart?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she whispers. She hasn’t stopped crying; the tears flow unstemmed down her face, clinging to her nostrils, dripping clean tracks through the dried blood around her mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> short, clear answers, Force Captain.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I have to grip the edge of the stool to stop myself from springing forward as Shadow Weaver gently, delicately wipes a smear of something awful from the corner of Adora’s mouth. Adora whimpers again; my heart clenches. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kill her. Kill her. I’ll kill her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now… tell me about the heart of Krytis.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was big,” she whispers. “It took a long time to get to. There were machines, and… a lot of Eternian tech I didn’t under… understand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And the AI told you how to activate the weapon?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She wouldn’t tell me what it did. I tried to fight her, tried to make her tell me what it was, but she just kept saying that it was vitally important, and it would save lives, and that I would get to retire a hero and go back to my real homeworld if I would j-j-j-just do as she said.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you did it, then. You activated the weapon for the sake of personal glory.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora heaves another sob.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would kill everybody on the planet, everybody in orbit around it. I didn’t know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, as useless as your </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal</span>
  </em>
  <span> ignorance about Etherian tech is, at least your memories will have some value to Lord Prime. Surely even </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t deny the usefulness of my division when there is so much to be learned from this… </span>
  <em>
    <span>experience</span>
  </em>
  <span> you have put us all through.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” I blurt, unable to hide the panic on my face, “what do you mean, her memories?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver doesn’t deign to look at me, but she does at least answer my question.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When I’m done with her, Lord Prime has ordered her integrated into the hivemind so that he can incorporate her memories directly into his own and learn what he can. I’m only </span>
  <em>
    <span>bothering</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the interrogation because, of course, he tends to be quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>selective</span>
  </em>
  <span> about what intel he chooses to </span>
  <em>
    <span>share</span>
  </em>
  <span> with us. The only information we’re getting is what I can extract before I turn her over to him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. They’re going to chip her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But - I thought you just said you were going to take the other Eternian implant out of her. How can you do both? Wouldn’t that risk damaging the memories?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now</span>
  </em>
  <span> Shadow Weaver does turn around and look at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Basic order of operations, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Commodore. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If I had not overseen your lessons myself, I would assume you had never been taught simple mathematical logic. Prime collects up her memories, and then when he’s gotten the information he needs, the husk is ours to dissect. It’s not as if he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep </span>
  </em>
  <span>a vessel like this one.” She gestures dismissively to the limp form of the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>bristle. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. No. Focus. None of what she’s saying matters. I’m going to get Adora out of here long before any of that happens.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stick. To. The. Plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now, I have an interrogation to complete - do be </span>
  <em>
    <span>silent, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Catra, or else </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I clamp my mouth shut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns back to Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora, who’s looking at me again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I think, wishing I could think it loud enough for her to hear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just a little longer and then I can get you out of here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The weapon, when activated,” Shadow Weaver says thoughtfully, turning back to her work, “released both an electromagnetic pulse designed to disable every ship in orbit and a depolarization pulse designed to overload the neurons in every single complex functioning brain on or near the planet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>were the only survivor. Why did it not kill you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Entrapta said - sh - she said, the depolarization has to be, uh - an, an extremely specific f-f-frequency… to disrupt neurons.” Adora’s eyes flash back and forth between me and Shadow Weaver, like she’s not sure which of us asked the question. “She said that - the Eternians m-m-must not have realized that my brain would be… </span>
  <em>
    <span>changed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Different frequency, because of the - because of something the second implant did?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver barks a laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Arrogant fools.” She chuckles, crossing her arms, glancing back at me as if to confirm that I think this is as funny as she does. Her attention doesn’t linger for long, though - I’m not important to her scheming </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> her celebrations, and never really have been. Just a tool. Not a peer, not an </span>
  <em>
    <span>equal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“So they meant for you to die and all your secrets with you, and instead </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> made the careless mistake that ensured you would live to deliver all those secrets to </span>
  <em>
    <span>us.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They wanted me to die,” Adora says in agreement, choking on the words. “After I didn’t die… Light Hope was surprised. Even though… even though she’s not real, she’s just a computer. She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprised.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Through Adora’s doped-up state, the obvious hurt she felt at this betrayal is undeniable. Fresh tears roll down the tracks on her face, hit the grated metal floor with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>pat - pat - pat.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “She wanted me to die. She - she tried to make </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> I would die. I thought - I thought she was my f-f-friend. I thought she was helping me. Sometimes - sometimes - I even thought she loved me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hits me like a blast through the gut.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s when I really, truly understand that no matter how well this rescue goes, Adora’s never going to forgive me, and she’s never going to trust me again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I deserve that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I deserve worse than that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Much</span>
  </em>
  <span> worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How pathetic,” Shadow Weaver drawls. “But ultimately irrelevant. You mentioned Entrapta. We’ve already pieced together that you had the first implant, the AI chip, surgically removed on Dryl Station. How did you get from Krytis to Dryl?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this, Adora straightens up a little, and - courtesy of the effect of veriathilin - actually smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She saved me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who</span>
  </em>
  <span> saved you? Entrapta?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then Adora </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a drunken, almost childlike laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A weird old lady on a weird old ship. She came because of the pulse, I think?” Her out of place giddiness vanishes as quickly as it appeared. “I don't remember it very clearly - I was… I was pretty fucked up - I - Light Hope was still in my head and she kept - she kept telling me to - to take my blaster and - and point it at myself, and I - I don’t know… I don’t know how long that was. It felt like a long time, fighting with Light Hope, trying to - trying to get rid of my blaster without giving her a chance to take over my arm again. That’s how I was when the old lady found me, screaming at the voice in my head in the heart of Krytis. She said - she said she was a Friend of Mara, and that she knew what was wrong with me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then,” Adora says, grinning dreamily again, “she shot me with a stunner. Kind of funny, old lady with a gun. And when I woke up, I was on Dryl.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” Shadow Weaver mutters. “So you have no conscious memories of how this </span>
  <em>
    <span>woman</span>
  </em>
  <span> navigated to Dryl Station?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope! It’s - it’s a secret. Entrapta doesn’t like visitors. She only likes robots.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re getting distracted again, Adora,” Shadow Weaver says, with quiet menace, and that makes Adora’s eyes go wide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“S - sorry - I - please don’t, please, please don’t!” Her eyes snap to the wall panel controls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you will simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>focus, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I will not </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.” This seems to calm Adora down. She frowns, licks her lips; the action makes them stick together and then snap apart again as her jaw falls slack. “What can you tell me about how to find Dryl Station and the renegade Eternian known as Entrapta?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Entrapta… is a very good surgeon. She tried really hard to get both the implants out of my head, but the second one was too hard, even for her. At least I think - I think that's what she told me. She uses a lot of words I don’t know. The station... the station is small and it’s c-c-cloaked, and… and she says she moves it, somehow, every year or so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Her stammering is becoming more frequent. The drugs must be starting to wear off.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck, I hope Shadow Weaver decides to call it done when it wears off and not go for a double-dose interrogation. Those are always... so fucking messy. I don't think I'll be able to stay and watch for that if she does.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you see anything to do with Entrapta's weapons manufacturing operations while you were on board the station?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no. I was just in a medibed.” She frowns. “I think I was asleep for a long time.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were on Dryl Station for </span>
  <em>
    <span>six months, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Force Captain,” Shadow Weaver snaps. “Surely you saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>overheard </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do with her weaponry trade.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She liked to talk about what she was working on, s-s-sometimes!” Adora says hopefully, eager to please, eager to give her captor something that will make her happy. “I didn’t really understand any of it. And I was on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> of painkillers. C-c-can I - oh - can I have some painkillers </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>please?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver sighs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“At least Lord Prime will be pleased to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> of value in those memories. We've been trying to track down that station for years. Anything else you remember about Dryl? Anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>relevant</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the Horde?” She quickly adds, when Adora starts to open her mouth with a smile. She shuts it again, ponders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There was a clone,” she whispers, conspiratorially. “He scared me at first. I thought Horde Prime sent him. And then I thought he was a hallucination. But he was a friend of Entrapta’s. He was actually really nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver sighs </span>
  <em>
    <span>again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>else?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Adora doesn’t answer. Her eyes have very suddenly drifted shut, and her head has started to flop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Force Captain,” Shadow Weaver snaps, and when that doesn’t achieve anything, she slaps Adora hard across the face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m up and on my feet, claws out, before I can stop to think about what the fuck I’m doing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t see me do it, but the camera in the corner of the room will have seen it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck. I might have just blown everything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they go back and review the tapes -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. No, it doesn’t fucking matter. The plan goes forward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s eyes jolt open at the pain of the strike, and she looks to me again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I keep my face blank, even as my heart is screaming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to get you out. I promise. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She blinks a few times.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then rage fills her battered, exhausted face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she snarls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, princess,” I sneer, casually walking in a semicircle around her, staying behind Shadow Weaver. “Your latest dose of happy juice wearing off?” I position myself carefully so that my back is to the camera in the corner of the room, obscuring the front of my body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No thanks to you and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>chatter</span>
  </em>
  <span> wasting my precious </span>
  <em>
    <span>time,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shadow Weaver hisses, casting a look at me over her shoulder. I shrug. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“When you’re done here I need authorization on a payment transfer.” I scratch my chin as I say this, holding eye contact with Adora, and as I curl my fingers to ‘scratch’ I flash the sign for </span><b>look</b> a few times <span>as obviously as I dare. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I see Adora’s eyes - the edges of her irises more visible now, as her body steadily metabolizes the veriathilin - follow the movement of my hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver makes an annoyed noise at me, choked by the many technological layers of her mask into what might just sound like a soft hiss to lesser ears, and then turns back to Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One last question, if you’re still feeling… </span>
  <em>
    <span>cooperative.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She lifts her hand meaningfully in the direction of the control panel, and genuine terror fills Adora’s expression. “Are there others like you, or were you the only one? Were you a pilot test, or part of a mass rollout? Have the Eternians infiltrated our ranks with more sleeper agents like you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - I don’t know.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver reaches for the controls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait!! I - I know there was at least one before me. Mara. The old lady, she told me about someone named Mara, she said that… that she was like me, an Eternian who had the two implants put in her brain to try to control her and m-m-make her into a s-s-supersoldier. But she died before - before she did her mission, I think. Before anybody could save her. I think - I think m-m-maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the first one - the test run.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On these last two words, Adora’s eyes flick back to me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I only have a moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Trust outsiders, </b>
  <span>I sign as quickly as I can, while Shadow Weaver’s back is to me and the camera won’t pick up my hands. My signed Hstraka is a little rough, but I hope she understands. </span>
  <b>We get you out. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver sees Adora looking intently at me - I drop my hands to my sides just as she whirls around to see what I’m doing to distract the prisoner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>nuisance,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she mutters, a warning in her voice. “Get out and let me finish.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Her drugs are wearing off,” I point out. “I think you’ve gotten everything you’re going to squeeze out of her for now.” She turns with a stony silence that expresses more impatience than any growl could have, snags Adora’s chin roughly in her hands again, and studies the size of her pupils. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hopefully if I’ve annoyed her </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> the right amount, she’ll try to punish me by saddling me with - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine. I’m done here. I’ll authorize your payment transfer… </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> you escort the prisoner back down to her cell.” Thank fuck, finally something goes according to plan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” I complain, making the conscious move to flick an ear in ‘annoyance’ for the sake of the cameras. “Don’t you have an entire dreadnought full of lackeys for that sort of shit?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Shadow Weaver slowly, slowly turns her face back towards me, I shrink back against the wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ve made a mistake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been playing at freedom for too long again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Catra,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says, with low menace, dropping her hold on Adora’s face and taking a single, slow step towards me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I listen to her hearts - I don't know exactly what she is but I know she has at least three of them - pulsing slower and slower.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a metronome.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a countdown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like the warning rattle of a venomous animal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It means I've crossed the line into danger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - I’m sorry, Shadow Weaver.” I take another step back. “You’re right - I - I forgot myself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Remember that, Catra.” She slips her fingers under my chin and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>shudder.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Her flesh is as cold as her fury. I can smell Adora’s blood on her, fresh and bright and cloying. “Your attitude has gotten </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse</span>
  </em>
  <span> since you received that promotion. You apparently need to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>reminded</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>meaningless. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You are disposable. And the moment you are no longer useful to me, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> dispose of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Shadow Weaver,” I mumble, looking at the floor, desperate to avoid knowing how much of this Adora is consciously observing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Humiliating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>humiliating. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>sass</span>
  </em>
  <span> me again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Commodore,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she sneers, then digs her fingers hard into the underside of my jaw. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at me when I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>speaking</span>
  </em>
  <span> to you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hate this. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I force my gaze up, force myself to meet the empty glare of her mask’s light filtration visor where I can only assume her eyes are hiding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This close, she smells </span>
  <em>
    <span>rancid. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora isn’t the first prisoner she’s interrogated today and won’t be the last. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She likes to say that Horde Prime appreciates her </span>
  <em>
    <span>hands on </span>
  </em>
  <span>style of management. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do not delude yourself into thinking anybody is fooled, least of all </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stop breathing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble told her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My limbs are paralyzed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What do I do?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your paltry handful of successes is hardly anything to be proud of,” she continues, and some of the panic leaves my body. I try not to gasp as I allow my lungs to work again, to claw in more of the noxious air her mask is venting directly into my face. She’s not talking about Adora. She’s not talking about my betrayal. “The fact that you take pride in any of it at all is, frankly, quite… pitiful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Double Trouble </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That you are all that’s left of my senior operatives is </span>
  <em>
    <span>pathetic.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You are a stopgap measure while I groom new junior agents, and that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>all. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Do you understand me… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Commodore?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>My rank drips from the mask’s speech output syllable by syllable, mocking and disdainful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Shadow Weaver,” I mutter, fighting to keep my eyes on her face. I can feel that my ears are flat against my head, and familiar shame burns hot and hateful in my chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. Now. What </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you promise the Circular Dawn mercenaries in payment? I certainly </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> you used what small amount of sound judgement you have.” It shouldn’t surprise me that she was keeping tabs on my progress through the ship, listening in on every interaction along the way. I'm about to launch into the next line of script my plan calls for when she says: “I’m starting to wonder if you need to pay </span>
  <em>
    <span>reconditioning</span>
  </em>
  <span> a little visit.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t control the way my body reacts to that word. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I <em>can't.</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cower.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cower like the miserable, stupid animal I am.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She said it best.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pitiful. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Torpedoes,” I say quickly, pushing the word out past the fear trying to squeeze my throat shut. “They didn’t want creds. They wanted weapons.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver seems to loom twice as tall in her magnificent, dignified anger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You promised them </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I rally myself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take a breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I plaster a shaky smirk onto my face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told them we had some prototype zero-G torpedoes we could give them as payment. You know... the A-29s.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, like the reassuring mechanical sound of an airlock sealing successfully, a warbling, tinny chortle fills the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> devious by nature, aren’t you?” Her horrible fingers finally leave my face and she straightens up. “Being inherently deceitful is perhaps the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing you can be trusted for.” I almost didn’t realize she’d backed me into a corner. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(The corner directly under the camera, in its blind spot. Her violence is always premeditated, calculated, </span>
  <em>
    <span>precise.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t about to give them anything valuable,” I say, allowing myself to relax just the smallest bit. “They won’t know until they try to </span>
  <em>
    <span>use</span>
  </em>
  <span> them that the A-29s are just hollow shells.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t see it, of course, but I like to think that this makes her smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will allow the </span>
  <em>
    <span>smallest</span>
  </em>
  <span> measure of appreciation for that solution. We’ve been trying to decide how to best to dispose of them for months now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, I knew this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I don’t say anything. She’s always liked me better when I talk less.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Very well. I’ll notify requisitions and have them brought up from storage. Your little mercenary friends can collect the payment from there. Dismissed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stand straighter and salute. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door to the corridor hisses open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah yes,” she says, “I see you brought our esteemed guests </span>
  <em>
    <span>with </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, Commodore.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They insisted on securing the payment, Shadow Weaver,” I say, with tight formality, hoping the presence of these ‘important allies’ will at least deter her inclination to punish me for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hurry up then,” is all she says, and then she’s off down the corridor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The payment?” Bow asks, looking up at me from where he’s standing alert at the door. I’m relieved they’ve both kept their helmets on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s been approved,” I say, staying firmly in character. “I just have to get this prisoner back to her cell first. Make yourself useful while you’re here, help me get her down.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a small blessing that I can’t see the expressions on their faces as they step inside the interrogation room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora is conscious, watching me with a careful but weary expression.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t try anything,” I say to her, struggling to shape the words with genuine force, and then cross to the controls. Her whole body flinches, bracing instinctively for the shock, and the snare of guilt closes tighter, tighter, cutting me as I struggle in vain against it. I have to focus. I have to get her out of here. I have to stay calm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hit the controls for the arm restraints; the energy beams holding her up by the wrist cuffs deactivate and she falls to the floor in a heap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer makes a choked noise of distress. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>catch</span>
  </em>
  <span> her, you fucking morons,” I hiss, playing both Traitor Catra and Commodore Catra at once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re not here to play at being Horde grunts,” Bow says, following the script I’ve given him. “We want the payment you agreed to. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have to take the prisoner - “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bring her along for all we care,” Glimmer snaps. “Take us to the weapon prototypes you promised us so we can get the hell off this ship, or Circular Dawn might not be so friendly the next time you want to use us as cover for a job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” I growl, “But </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> carrying the Eternian. I don’t want to touch her, she’s fucking disgusting.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to touch her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t feel like I have any </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow and Glimmer clank past me in their merc armor, bend down and carefully haul Adora up to her feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora groans, hisses in pain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>march,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I grumble. “The longer you assholes make me wait for dinner, the angrier I’m going to be about the fact that it’s a fucking rehydrated ration bar.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lead them out into the hallway, my heart thundering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We’ve got her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shadow Weaver doesn’t suspect anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All we have to do now is get her <em>out. </em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The route between Interrogation Room Fifty-Six B and the Green Wing requisitions depot is about ten minutes of travel - three lift tube changes and five fastwalk belts, and then we’ll be there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re the longest fucking ten minutes of my life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t seem to get a handle on my heartrate, can’t slow my breathing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everybody who walks towards us and crosses our path makes me clench up, ready to fight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But this is The Black Garnet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody looks twice at a bloodied, staggering prisoner, a pair of mercs, or a swaggering agent just back from a long mission. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no such thing as <em>unusually weird</em> in this buzzing hive of productive secrecy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of the first things you learn as a cadet on this dreadnought is never to ask questions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I walk out in front, because I’m the one who knows the route, but also because I really, really don’t want to look Adora in the eye if I don’t have to. It’s fucking hard enough to act like I’m happy to be done with the assignment and pleased to have captured my target. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few other agents actually stop me to congratulate me, but the exchanges are brief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve never really made </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span> here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve been careful to make sure of that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The corridors grow quieter and more barren as we approach the depot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, you impatient assholes,” I sigh, turning into the depot, “You’ll get your payment. Just let me do the talking, alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Finally,” Bow huffs. I glance in his direction automatically when he speaks, and -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not ready for the piercing stare I’m met with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora is completely awake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her pupils are normal sized. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And her expression -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It cuts through me, one neat slash inflicted by the icy hatred in her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m sure of it now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She will </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> forgive me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Commodore,” someone says, and I yank my attention to the officer standing and saluting from behind the front desk of the depot. “I was told to expect you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“At ease, Lieutenant.” She smooths out her clean white uniform and then sits back down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I think at her reflexively. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s nothing personal. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If I’m a monster, well. Let me be a monster with strong enough convictions to get out of this alive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have the A-29 torpedoes been sent up?” I ask. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They have,” she says, tapping the display of her desk and bringing up their schematics. “Although I don’t understand what they’ll be used for, considering - “ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I quickly put my body between my entourage and the Lieutenant, like I’m trying to block the mercenaries from seeing the projected layout of the torpedo shells. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A convincing performance is all about the little details. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lieutenant,” I snap, reaching out to her desk and dismissing the schematics with a brusque movement. “I asked whether they’re ready to be handed over. The Circular Dawn are… </span>
  <em>
    <span>impatient</span>
  </em>
  <span> to receive their payment.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir. Sorry, Commodore.” She finally seems to understand that we are supposedly swindling these mercenaries - she looks past me at them, then back at me, and then gives me a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>wink. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Glimmer grunts. “Let’s see them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right! Of course!” The Lieutenant jumps out of her seat and leads us down the sprawling racks. All of them are populated by strange forms covered in white vacuum-sealed plastic, obscuring a wide array of secretive technology both Horde and non-Horde. It feels eerily like walking through a morgue of misshapen, pristinely mummified corpses of various unknowable species. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here we are,” the Lieutenant says finally, coming to a stop in front of a wrapped bundle. She activates the frictionless lift mode on the smart pallet and slides the packaged A-29s out into the aisle; they move smoothly under her confident handling despite each being the length of a tall person and the weight of a small skiff. “Four prototype A-29 Zero-G Torpedoes, payable to the Circular Dawn mercenary fleet. I’ll need your electronic signature here, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns from the torpedoes to the mercenaries with a polite smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s still smiling as Bow pulls the trigger of the blaster that has suddenly appeared in his right hand. Her face is unchanged save for the neat, instantly cauterized hole that has appeared between her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She crumples. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Commodore,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bow spits. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I leap for him, claws out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His left hand comes up. The muzzle of the second blaster, drawn, aimed in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fraction</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a heartbeat. I see his finger tighten around the trigger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pulse of energy catches me between the eyes; there is a brief sensation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>HOT </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>BRIGHT, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then darkness. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first thing that registers is that my head hurts like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>motherfucker.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The second thing I comprehend, once I wade through the bleary, dizzy awareness of how much pain is buzzing behind my eyeballs, is that said eyes are, in fact, open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet I don’t see shit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My arms are tight to the sides of my body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s dark in here, almost perfectly sealed - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfectly, thank fuck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t think of a stupider way to die than suffocating inside of a hollow torpedo after going to an extraordinary amount of effort to fake my own death first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alright.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So everything is going to plan.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So far.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Groggily, I think to myself that Etheria Station’s Spymaster General better live up to his fucking title, because this is in his hands now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The throbbing in my head makes me close my eyes even though that doesn’t make it any darker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hope Adora isn’t claustrophobic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, exhausted and still dazed from the stunner blast, I let myself drift back into unconsciousness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>piss.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those are the realizations that pull me awake the second time, and this time when I open my eyes I’m met with the blinding glare of light. With an aggrieved mumble, I lift my hand to shield my eyes from it -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or at least, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I can’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t because, I quickly discover, my wrists are zipcuffed to tiedown hooks in what I quickly identify as the cargo bay floor of the Dragon’s Daughter 5E9.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” I mutter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So that’s how it’s gonna be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay. Well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I am still hungry and still need to piss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take stock of my surroundings. This ship is too small to have a proper brig, so it makes sense that they’d throw me in the cargo bay. The only other option would have been to keep me in the tiny kitchen nook or in the six-person barracks with its tightly cramped flip beds stacked three high, which were bad enough with just the Etherians and the Captain crammed in there with me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So. The cargo bay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can feel one of the thin little flip bed mattresses underneath of me, so that’s nice at least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nice, but does not solve the problem of, again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>needing to piss. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” I yell into the humming, clicking, crackling of the ship. “I’m awake!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Normally in a space this small I’d be able to hear every single word exchanged, but the ambient noise of this mechanical clusterfuck of a vehicle is so omnipresent and discordant that I can’t make out what they’re saying up in the bridge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I do hear the footsteps coming towards me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart leaps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora. Adora. Please be Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I crane my head to see the feet as they come through the hatch. I breathe in, frantically hoping for a whiff of that familiar scent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Commander Glimmer, stripped down to a sweaty undershirt and still in the bottom half of the mercenary armor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The floor gives a moan of complaint as she drops the last three rungs and lands in an athletic crouch. She’s shorter and thicker than Adora, but I suspect no less made of muscle. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forget needing to piss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s something I need more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I need to know she’s okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or, well. Alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I know she can’t possibly be okay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” I blurt quickly, the croak of my voice - all blustering ego collapsed now to a single point of urgent need - cementing my desperate humiliation in these circumstances. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t really give a fuck about that right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That stunner blast still got your brains scrambled?” The Commander snorts, striding towards me across the small storage space, ducking under a loosely dangling cable on her way. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>not Adora.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean - is she - how is she doing - we got her out, right?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer stops a few feet from me, crosses her arms over her chest and regards me down her nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s alive.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those two words release a pile of tightly clenched fear I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto, and</span>
  <em>
    <span> without </span>
  </em>
  <span>that fear, something </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> starts to creep in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can hear the threatening tremble of tears wanting to start. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to fucking cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not with relief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not with devastation at what I know is coming. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keep moving forward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s the only way I’ve ever known how to survive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We got out clean?” I ask, needing to propel the conversation forward. Anything, anything to avoid thinking about why it’s Glimmer here talking to me and not Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We got the ‘torpedoes’ loaded up and were well out of gravgrab range by the time they realized we had Adora stashed inside of them. They sent some high speed fighters after us, but - don’t tell him I said this - Seahawk is actually an </span>
  <em>
    <span>insanely</span>
  </em>
  <span> good pilot, with extra emphasis on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>insanity. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You missed one hell of a ride. We’re about an hour into the Whispering System now. We should be safe, but we’re not letting our guard down just yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod, closing my eyes against the lights for a moment while I come up with more questions to keep her talking and keep myself from </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, my head still hurts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you think they bought that I died back there in the requisitions depot?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bow hit the cameras right after taking you out.” A little smirk tugs at her face. “I told you he was the best shot on the station. We hid the Horde girl’s body deep in the stacks, like you said to, so there are two bodies missing instead of one when they review the tapes and see we shot both of you. It’ll at least buy you a little time before they figure out you were in on it, if they figure it out at all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Free. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>free. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well. No. Not quite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need to piss,” I say, opening my eyes again and tugging at my restraints. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you want me to…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uncuff me? You can frogmarch me to the shitter and watch me taking a leak if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to. I’m seriously past the point of caring. But if you don’t do it soon you get to be the one to explain to the Captain why a full sixteen percent of his limited supply of cot mattresses is now soaked in urine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Banter. Banter is easy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Don’t think. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Don’t think about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Don’t think about </span>
  <em>
    <span>her.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer snorts, then bends down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She undoes the cuff on my left wrist, then cuffs it to my right wrist, then undoes the right from the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Let’s go.” She hauls me up, and I’m still a little woozy from the aftereffects of the stunner and end up leaning more weight on her than I expect to. Woof. Getting up the ladder to the habdeck is going to be an adventure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I manage it somehow, even with my wrists cuffed together and my bladder bursting and my head spinning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In a way, it’s kind of nice to have a challenge as simple as </span>
  <em>
    <span>go up. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Something that can be handled rung by rung, where progress is linear and the objective is pressing but, for once, not deadly if I fail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m almost sad when I reach the top.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to pee. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer bullies me through the barracks as fast as possible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But even if I don’t have time to steal a glimpse of her, I know she’s there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can smell her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can hear her heartbeat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn my head in her direction as we go past, and Glimmer gives me a sharp shove forward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says firmly, and that’s all she </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ashamed, I allow myself to be escorted forcefully into the lav.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer does decide to join me in there and supervise, and I’m honestly a little flattered that she’s that suspicious of me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In any other circumstances, I might have actually been up to something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I take my time, even sighing theatrically with relief and looking up at her, trying to make her squirm with eye contact applied in perhaps the most awkward possible situation to have eye contact with someone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She isn’t in the mood to play that game, though, and just glowers back at me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like us passing by Adora in her bunk reminded her that this is, after all, entirely my fault. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reminded her of just what I did to Adora.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m suddenly not in the mood for stupid games anymore either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wipe, hit the suction vac, and sanitize my hands in somber silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hope against hope that maybe when we emerge from the lav Adora will be standing there, waiting for me. Even if she just wants to yell at me, hit me, something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything - </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she isn’t there when we get back out. She’s not even curled up in her bunk anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My heart sinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not going to cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to fucking cry in front of Commander Glimmer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We make it through the barracks and back down the hatch to the cargo hold. She cuffs me back to the floor and I wait until I hear her boots scuff their way up the ladder again before I give in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sink back into the measly padding of the flip bunk mattress, tilt my chin up towards the ceiling in quiet desperation, and I cry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cry, and I cry, and I cry, and I can’t even turn to bury my face in the pillow or lift my hands to wipe my eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a long, long flight back to the station. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p>
<h2>Intermission Concluded</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody says anything for a while. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They all understand that this is where Catra’s story ends. There’s nothing left to tell that they don’t already know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer casts a glance at Adora, still sitting silently, frowning at Catra through the one-way glass of the Etheria Station interrogation room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She watches Catra with a clenched jaw, watches her as if she’s waiting, waiting for - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra looks down at her hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She, too, is waiting for something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>braced</span>
  </em>
  <span> for something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But nothing comes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever Adora is waiting for Catra to say, she doesn’t say it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever Catra is waiting for Adora to do, she doesn’t do it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Bow says gently, when the silence has stretched out long enough. “Let’s talk sentencing options. We can assure you a certain amount of reduced time in exchange for your cooperation. I’m sure there’s a lot we can learn from you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He starts to talk about Etheria Station’s penal system - about rehabilitation, about restorative justice, about reintegration and therapy and community volunteering and vocational training.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra isn’t listening, because halfway into his first sentence Adora gets up out of her chair. Her ears track the moment as, without a word, Adora limps to the door and lets herself out of the monitoring room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t come back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora goes home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She gets one step into the bakery and the smell of the bread turns her stomach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turns back around.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She finds a bar instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She drinks four beers and then has the courage and the anger to wipe Catra’s information from her wrist implant’s contact list. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She drinks four more before something inside of her shatters and she has to be escorted out of the bar sobbing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer magically appears, takes her back to the bakery, tucks her into bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora waits for fifteen minutes after she leaves, then dresses herself again with fumbling fingers and goes back out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She finds another bar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time she sticks to an isolated corner booth, bites her knuckles to keep the tears silent instead of the gasping, shrieking gulps of air they were at the first bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually she’s drunk enough that her whole body feels numb and the tracks on her cheeks dry out. She staggers home, and she sleeps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Angella tells her to take as much time off of work as she needs, and then she sends a therapist’s contact information.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora deletes it and doesn’t emerge from her quarters for thirty-six hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she comes back out, she finds another bar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the start of three very bad months.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her drinking gets worse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bow suggests she needs work to keep busy, to have something to do with herself, so Angella allows her to resume her consulting on the ongoing war. It seems like a good time to have a Galactic Horde Force Captain on their side, since the armistice has officially ended and fighting has broken out between the Horde and the Empire again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora shows up to work regularly hungover and consistently combative. She and Angella get into arguments at least once a week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Glimmer is gone for just shy of a month on a mission she won’t tell Adora anything about, and when she comes back there is a proud, victorious swagger in her step that runs Adora through with sharp, infuriating envy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora starts asking to get back into the field, and this becomes the new primary source of arguments between her and the Administrator. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angella accuses her of wanting her to deal with her feelings by blowing things up or, worse, by deliberately putting herself into harm’s way with the unspoken goal of getting herself killed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora hates her for being right. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She won’t do it herself, at least. Not where somebody would have to pick up the pieces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has to at least make her ending useful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some sort of grand exit, some meaningful sacrifice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some way to cleanse herself of the blood she’s so thoroughly soaked in on her way out of this miserable, unbearable life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody tries to bring up Catra to her. Not anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not after she accidentally snapped Bow’s left clavicle because he started talking about how Catra was handling the rehab program without warning and happened to catch Adora on an especially bad day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>These three months of misery - for all involved, and not just Adora - come to a head when Adora drunk dials the Administrator in the middle of the day on a secure emergency line, interrupting a meeting with a group of Eternian delegates. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angella’s patience, legendarily generous, is worn gossamer thin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With her final remaining strand, she makes Adora an offer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cut down on the drinking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Talk </span>
  </em>
  <span>to the damn therapist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, when Angella is sure Adora’s actually in a stable enough emotional state, she’ll get a chance to see active duty again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sensing that this is the only offer she’ll get, Adora agrees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angella sends the therapist’s contact information again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time, she doesn’t delete it. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<h2>Prologue Concluded</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Adora seven entire sessions with Starla to get through the story of what happened, starting with that night in the hotel lobby and ending on the other side of the glass in the interrogation room in Station Security. Starla contributes very little - she mostly just allows Adora to talk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so Adora talks. She talks like she’s never, ever talked in her entire life. The hurt and the anger and the confusion and the loss pour out of her in throbbing, arterial bursts session by session, and she allows the talking to bleed her dry even though it often leaves her feeling weak and woozy afterwards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Now that she's at the end of it all, now that she's drained herself of every detail of Catra's tenderness, her trust, and her cold, manipulative deception, she doesn't know where to go from here. </p><p> </p><p>But for once, she isn't navigating her trauma alone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What were you hoping to hear her say?” Starla asks gently, when Adora falls into a sullen silence that mirrors that silence from six months ago between her and Catra while they sat separated by unbreakable plex and by unspeakable betrayal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That - “ Adora says, choking on how certain she is of the answer, on how eagerly her heart scrambles to speak the truth. “That she loved me. For real.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starla nods, spends a moment thoughtfully choosing her next words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why do you think she didn’t say it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, Adora has a dozen possible answers for that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” she says, instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Starla’s learned her tells by now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know, or you don’t like the answer?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora takes a deep breath in. She holds it to the count of four. And she exhales.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Either she never loved me, not the way I thought she did, or - or she didn’t think she </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> just fucking tell me that she loved me. Didn’t think she </span>
  <em>
    <span>should.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What made you avoid saying that, the first time you answered my question?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora tightens and relaxes her jaw over and over. Tears are building up inside of her again, and she doesn’t… doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to cry. She’s already cried so fucking much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If she never really loved me, that means I can - I can just burn everything. Burn it all to the ground and salt the earth and - and never think about her again.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She swallows. No, there’s no stopping it - she blinks, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>blinks, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and suddenly she’s crying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But,” she continues, “But if she really did love me, then… then I have to make a decision. And I don’t - I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to think about it more, I don’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>choose.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Starla nods and then, with utmost compassion, suggests:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t want to face the enormous question of whether or not to forgive her.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<h2>Postscript: One Year Later</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra laughs - a quiet, lilting laugh instead of a loud cackle, because she needs to keep her hand steady - at a joke Mauricio cracks from across the studio. It’s a clever enough punchline that even her client, distinctly untalkative at the tail end of a painful six hour sitting, huffs a little chuckle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Don’t tell that one in front of your girlfriend, Cio, &gt; Catra grunts, grinning, as she tops her gun up with more ink and then leans in close again, hunched over her Iwan client’s enormous arm, &lt; She’ll start to think you’re actually funny and then I won’t be able to steal her away from you. &gt; </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room fills with friendly guffaws. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; In your dreams, fuzzy, &gt; Mauricio hollers good-naturedly. &lt; Ah, someone’s coming in the front. I’ll get it. I’ll take them if it’s a walk in, that alright Catra? &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Fine by me, my book is packed tight for the next six months and I know you’re saving up right now. Just be </span>
  <em>
    <span>gentle</span>
  </em>
  <span> if it’s a softskin. &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been interesting, to say the least, trying to rehabilitate Venomous Ink from a poorly managed front for an illegal bug smuggling ring to an actual legitimate tattoo studio. Certainly not what Catra signed up for, but how was </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know that the only tattoo shop on the station that would hire her was more than just your average barely-functioning business run by macho shitheads? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not the wildest coup she’s ever masterminded, but certainly the most benevolent. Things have been so, so much better since she pushed Tung out. Although if she’d known how much </span>
  <em>
    <span>accounting</span>
  </em>
  <span> would be involved, she might not have bothered. But still, she hadn’t set out with the</span>
  <em>
    <span> intention</span>
  </em>
  <span> of taking over the shop. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Blech. She’s going to have to talk to her therapist this week about the fact that she’s still got lingering guilt over the whole thing, clearly. She wants, so, so badly, for this not to be some kind of sign that she’s irredeemable, that the inclination towards treachery is an inextricably evil part of her that can never be rehabilitated.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; How you holding up? &gt; She asks her client, pulling back the tattoo gun when she realizes she’s been working the same spot for a while as she chews over her thoughts. She probably owes him a breather. He makes a little tough-guy grunt instead of answering her. &lt; We’re almost done, &gt; she reassures him, curling the growling sounds in a friendly, playful way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods, apparently determined to push through. She makes a note to herself to remind him to get a good meal in his stomach after this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She buckles down, starting to feel the strain of fatigue herself but wanting to get the piece finished up as handsomely as she can manage, both for the sake of her own pride and because he’s been a good client to work with. This is her second piece for him, and last time he tipped really well and left a gushing review online. One more drop in the bucket to combat years of accumulated negative reviews from the previous management. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It certainly feels more healing than all that community service bullshit she endured that first year. Guilt about the coup aside, it’s a novel experience, trying to make things </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> than they were when she found them - and not just for herself, but for her coworkers who she’s come to genuinely like and respect. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits back again after several minutes hunched over and intensely focused, wipes down her client’s arm and regards what she’s done over the last six hours. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The smell of blood and ink is so strong that Catra doesn’t pick up her scent, and the buzzing of tattooing machines is loud enough that she doesn’t hear her enter into the little nook where Catra’s chair and portfolio wall are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So when Adora speaks, Catra is completely, utterly unprepared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re really good,” Adora’s voice says, from behind her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra nearly drops the tattoo gun. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She freezes, doesn’t turn towards that voice, doesn’t even cant an ear towards her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like this is some sort of easily dispelled magic, like if she </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Adora will vanish. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If the Iwan in her chair hadn’t glanced up as well at the sound of the voice, she’d be convinced she was imagining it entirely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - thanks,” she says. The Galactic B feels awkwardly soft in her mouth after eight hours of Hstraka.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, she can’t bear it. Like her limbs are being controlled by someone else, she methodically wipes clean her gun, places it into its stand, gets the worst of the slurry of ink and blood off of her gloved fingers with a paper towel, and then spins herself around on her stool to face whatever is waiting there for her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And there she is, like some well-dressed ghost come back to haunt her in high definition.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora looks like she’s just stepped out of the last news vid Catra saw her on, wearing the same blue Etherian Defense Force uniform with the glittering shoulder cords on the left that mark her newly announced rank. The pale blue half cape looks unfairly dashing on her, instead of stupid like it looks on every other Etherian official. She seems taller, somehow. Sturdier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s already seen Adora in videos, already knows that this is how she’s wearing her hair these days, but still - it hits Catra differently to see in person. There’s just something about the way she has the top long and pulled back into a little tail and the sides and back shaved close, fearlessly and shamelessly displaying the long scar left behind by the events of Krytis. Defiance of Horde norms in one, refusal to hide her rejection of Eternia in the other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra remembers how afraid Adora once was of anybody seeing that scar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora,” Catra says, and the total surprise she’s feeling leaks into her voice. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s really her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The parlor has suddenly gotten very, very quiet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Catra,” Adora says, her face carefully neutral, one hand resting on the leather hip holster where her Defense Force stunner hangs. To anybody else, the expression would be unreadable. But not to Catra. Catra </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> this face, </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> this woman. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora is nervous, from the hand on the weapon and the sound of her pulse, but there’s a softness around her eyes and the beginnings of muscle movement at the corner of her mouth. Afraid, but hopeful. Taking a risk, but stubbornly willing herself to believe it’ll pay off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a minute?” Adora asks, like she stops by in this tattoo shop in the crustiest end of the station wearing her full dress uniform all the time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Catra says, the word filled with soft astonishment. “Let me just get my client taped up and cashed out?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; I’ll handle him, boss, &gt; Mauricio grunts, from his station. &lt; I’m not doing anything else right now. &gt;</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra makes a mental note to give Cio a big bonus as soon as the shop can afford to. At the very least, she’s going to bring him coffee from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fancy</span>
  </em>
  <span> place tomorrow morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; You don’t mind? &gt; She asks her client, trying not to completely drop the ball on that whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>better customer experience </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing she was just patting herself on the back for a few minutes ago. &lt; She’s… an old friend I haven’t seen in a while. &gt; </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>&lt; Yeah, go ahead - it’s just the cleanup that’s left, right? Oh hey, take a picture first before we wrap it up? I want to send it to my clutchmates. &gt; Catra complies with this request, struggling to keep her movements cheerful and focused when all she wants to think about is Adora, </span>
  <em>
    <span>here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>here for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her, </span>
  </em>
  <span>on <em>purpose</em> for some reason, in <em>her</em> shop. She snaps the photo with her wrist chip and pushes the image to the client’s, and then Mauricio wanders over and trades places with her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora waits patiently and silently through the whole thing; Catra watches her out of the corner of one eye, feeling somehow nervous and vulnerable as Adora’s gaze roams over the section of wall covered in Catra’s artwork. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, she tugs her black nitrile gloves off and chucks them directly into their shop’s refuse chute. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, uh,” Catra mutters, rubbing nervously at her cramped wrist and avoiding Adora’s eyes, “What brings you here?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Adora asks instead of answering that question, sounding… apologetic. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra’s gut sinks. So, whatever Adora’s here for, it’s probably not anything good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure, we can talk in the back office.” Catra leads her to the tiny closet of a room, waving the door shut behind them. It’s cramped in there with two people, barely bigger than the privacy nooks in Club Salineas they used to - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, she can’t think about that. Not right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits down on the edge of the little desk instead of in the chair, throwing one leg across the other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she looks up, and their eyes meet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>how she’s fucking missed those eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She thinks, in that moment, that she might just crumble. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” she says quickly, to stop her mouth from forming the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m so fucking sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something worse, something stupider, “What, uh. Brings you here?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Adora a second to answer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she clears her throat and stands a little straighter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve got it on good authority from a trustworthy source that Double Trouble is back on the station,” Adora says, dropping this bombshell with only a stern frown to hint at her actual level of alarm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Catra says, “Fuck.” Her mind races, putting this together with Adora’s sudden appearance here in her tattoo shop. “So you want me to go back to working for Station Security to try to catch them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? No.” Adora’s eyebrows pinch together, creating that little wrinkle that Catra’s heart howls to see, remembering how many times she’s pressed her lips against it fondly. “You’re a civilian now. You gave them everything you promised to give them as part of your sentencing deal. You’re free. I’m here to warn you, and to promise you Station Security’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>protection.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait, what? What do you mean, protection?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s frown deepens; she takes one of her hands in the other, massages her palm with the pad of her thumb. That’s a new tic, Catra notes. It’s one she recognizes from Spymaster Bow. So they’ve been spending a lot of time together over the past year and a half, it’s safe to assume. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They know you’re not dead,” Adora says softly. “We’re pretty sure that’s why Double Trouble is on the station. We think they’re here for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra’s insides turn to ice. She shifts out of her casual, relaxed pose, gripping the edge of the desk tight with both hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she whispers. “Fuck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We won’t let them get at you. We’ll find them before that happens. But I wanted you to know, so that you’re prepared </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> they manage to get past us. And - well, Bow wanted me to offer you more </span>
  <em>
    <span>substantial </span>
  </em>
  <span>protection, if you wanted it. We could help you go into hiding until they’ve been flushed out and taken into custody.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>It's a lot to process.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra hunches forward, rubbing her hands against her face, considering her options. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Months and months of work building this new life, all that damn time spent working on her drawing skills while she was in supervised reintegration, all the scheming to overthrow Tung’s shitty little kingdom and claim it for her own -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All rendered pointless in one instant because her past can’t leave her fucking well enough alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll… have to think about it,” she says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Adora says, and there’s a gentleness about that word, even if she delivers it in her typical stiff way. She extends her right arm towards Catra, offering access to her chip. “So you can reach me when you make up your mind about how you want to proceed, or if something suspicious happens in the meantime.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra looks at the arm and can't stop the sudden flush of hope it sends through her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She recalls, with sharp clarity, the feeling of utter devastation when she finally worked up the courage to go through her contact list and discovered Adora’s had vanished, the connection between the two deleted from Adora’s end at some point. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A new question forms suddenly in her mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Adora - why are you here?” She asks quietly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora furrows her brow again, this time puzzled instead of upset. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just told you. Double Trouble is on the station and we think you’re their target. You needed to be informed.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Catra says, shaking her head. “Adora, why are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> here? You could have had Bow tell me, or sent a lackey or something. You’re a damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>General </span>
  </em>
  <span>now.” She gestures pointedly at the silver cords on Adora’s shoulder for emphasis. “It doesn’t make sense for you to be the one delivering messages.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Caught out, Adora’s face briefly flashes surprise, then embarrassment, then determination. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - “ she starts, then stops herself. She looks at her feet, and then back up to Catra’s face, holding her eyes. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” The confession is soft, but certain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you’ve been watching me,” Catra rebuts without any rancor. “It’s not even a secret, those were the terms of my reintegration. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how I’ve been doing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora pauses, and then…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she smiles one of those tiny, wry little smiles of hers. Like it makes her happy to have Catra call her bluff, in some strange way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can send somebody else to be your liaison, if you want.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only then does Catra realize Adora still has her arm extended, offering the contact. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Catra says quickly, hopping off the edge of the desk, grasping their forearms together tightly for the digital handshake. “This is fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s more than fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s more than she ever dared to hope for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They pull apart as soon as their chips pulse in time to confirm the connection has been reforged. Catra misses the contact instantly. With Adora so close, she ignores the voice in the back of her mind telling her that it’s a bad idea and indulges in a good, long inhale. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>scent</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her hits as hard as a cruiser to the sternum. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that fleeting smile is gone now, and Adora seems to have returned to all business. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get out of your hair,” Adora says, and Catra notices that as she says it her eyes are drawn to Catra’s actual, literal hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s been growing it out, mostly out of curiosity. She has no idea how long it could get if she doesn’t cut it short. It’s not something she’s ever been in a position to try before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says, waving open the office door so they can both slip back out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Call me if anything comes up,” Adora says crisply, and then turns to go.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t until Catra is watching her retreating back that she knows, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> she isn’t physically capable of watching Adora walk away from her again - not without finally saying what she should have said more than a year ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” she blurts, and Adora stops.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everybody in the shop has gone quiet again. The guys have never seen Catra like this before; she can feel their eyes on her, can </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste</span>
  </em>
  <span> their curiosity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora turns, and the air between them seems to hum, to weep, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>bristle </span>
  </em>
  <span>with a thousand unspoken things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra swallows. She has to say it. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I loved you, you know.” The words seem to leave her mouth on their own, refusing to be stopped, even with her crew of rowdy Iwans looking on, even with the space of a year and a half apart standing between them, even with the knowledge that giving voice to these words means taking the risk of an explicit rejection instead of staying safe by keeping quiet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora stands there in the entrance to Venomous Ink with her ridiculous cape and her handsome little ponytail and fearlessly bared scars, and her expression opens up into something startled, vulnerable, wistful. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She licks her lips, starts to say something, stops again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra waits for her, feeling emptied, feeling like she’s taken her heart out of her chest and rolled it across the floor to Adora’s feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she <em>waits.</em> She’s prepared to wait as long as she needs to, if there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> chance that one day Adora will want to try again. She’s already waited one decade for Adora in this lifetime. What’s one more? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Adora finally says. She smiles mournfully. “I loved you too.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Catra doesn’t have a plan for what to say next. She wants - she wants so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but those words don’t mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>I forgive you</span>
  </em>
  <span> or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>I might forgive you someday. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So when she starts talking, she’s not sure what will come out of her mouth until it’s already out into the air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me help you,” Catra says. “Nobody knows Double Trouble like I do - we worked together for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Your best chance of catching them is with me on your side.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Adora’s smile vanishes, reverts back into a worried frown. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You paid your dues,” she says. “You should be free to live your life. To have this.” She gestures to the tattoo parlor - all the staff quickly make themselves look busy, as if they aren’t hanging on every word - and to the wall of Catra's art, an accumulation of experimentation and creativity over the last year. “To be normal. To be happy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And, now that Adora points it out, Catra realizes she </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> been happy. Not always, of course, since hauling a failing business up out of debt and ill-repute is a fundamentally miserable and stress-inducing process, but she’s found happiness here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But even when she was doing her absolute fucking best to perform that ‘normal civilian’ song and dance, she couldn’t resist the temptation to turn Tung’s employees against him and stage a takeover. Maybe there’s something in her that’s broken in a way that doesn’t allow her to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>satisfied</span>
  </em>
  <span> with just being happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it makes perfect sense to use what she’s good at, especially if it will somehow begin to make up for everything she did to Adora. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want to help,” she says, earnestly. “And I know that having me help will make a difference.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In her mind she’s already committed. She’ll give control of the shop to Cio. He’s smart and driven, he can handle it. She can pass half her client bookings to Hiss, the other half to Fangrio. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Adora asks, her eyes searching Catra’s for any sign of uncertainty. It reminds her so painfully of the way Adora used to look at her right after a scene, nervously fumbling her way through her first attempts at providing aftercare, checking for signs of Catra’s emotional state. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something bitter and angry comes awake inside of her as she pictures, as she has a thousand times before, the moment Adora must have realized she was being hauled back to the Black Garnet by the person she thought was Catra. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure,” Catra says, with sudden vehemence. Even if this weren’t the perfect opportunity to try to make things right with Adora, there’s also the fact that she has a </span>
  <em>
    <span>score</span>
  </em>
  <span> to settle with Double Trouble. “When can I start?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<h2>Post-Postscript: Forty Years Later</h2><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes open to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Where are you? How did you get here?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You try to sit up, but the pain is incredible, and you collapse back down again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whoa! Easy there, kid,” somebody says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a stranger’s voice, and you scramble to find your blaster, but it isn’t anywhere on you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You rake through your memories, trying to triangulate just what’s happening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last thing you remember is Light Hope telling you that you needed to stay awake and keep fighting, that it’s your sacred duty to protect the transport - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Light Hope! She’ll know what happened. She always remembers everything with perfect clarity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Light Hope? Where am I? How did I get here? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard in your life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Your mind hasn’t been this quiet since you were ten years old.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’ve had a constant, dependable companion in Light Hope for the last eight years. Her lack of response scares you more than you thought possible. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Light Hope? Light Hope??</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s not answering you. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Light Hope?” You say out loud, desperately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s been disabled,” the stranger says, and suddenly you care much more urgently about whoever is talking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You whip your eyes over to the woman standing beside your cot, and panic surges through you when you realize she’s not Eternian. Her long silver-streaked hair is pulled back into a braid that reveals her large, darting ears. Her eyes are bizarre but haunting, split one for one between blue and gold in a way you didn’t realize was biologically possible. Her hands - her hands have </span>
  <em>
    <span>claws.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You don’t know the name for her species, but it doesn’t matter. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>alien. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easy,” she says, and when she speaks you realize she has </span>
  <em>
    <span>fangs. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Ah, fuck, you’re one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eternians, huh? Alright, okay, relax. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Adora, honey, can we switch places?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If they say anything xenophobic I’m putting them back in the wreckage where we found them,” someone shouts from a place you can’t see. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You put the pieces together as quickly as you can. These people pulled you out of your fighter at some point after you blacked out, have you on their ship, are </span>
  <em>
    <span>aliens</span>
  </em>
  <span> and therefore definitely not on the Eternian side of the war, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and - and somehow disabled Light Hope.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You call for her again in your mind reflexively. If ever there was a situation where you could use her guidance, this is it. But still, nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While you reach in vain for your trusted guardian and closest companion - what else do you call someone you literally keep no secrets from? - the alien at your bedside rises and meets another woman in the doorway to the corridor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’ve just realized this second woman is an Eternian - at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>physically, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if not in terms of allegiance - when, to your horror, they wrap each other in a quick embrace and exchange a hurried kiss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be patient with them,” the alien says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know you’re better at this than I am,” replies the Eternian. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You feel like you’re intruding, but it’s not like there’s anywhere else to look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got this,” insists the alien. They kiss again, and then the Eternian comes into your room and the alien vanishes down the corridor, long tail flicking behind her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” the Eternian woman says, coming to sit in the chair beside you. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I know you must be really scared right now, but I want you to know we’re here to help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to Light Hope?” Is the first question off your lips. The woman frowns; there’s a permanent line between her eyebrows, but this makes it become more pronounced. This close, you can see her face is littered with scars. The biggest one is on the side of her head, impossible not to notice. You’ve seen plenty of battle scars in your life so far, but there’s something about this one that makes it hard to resist staring rudely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve… put her to sleep for now, essentially,” she says to you, brushing back a stray strand of snowy white hair that has escaped her topknot. The movement is useless - it falls back into her eyes almost immediately. “It’s just a temporary solution until we get you to someone who can help take her out of your head entirely.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” You balk, horrified. They want to take her away from you, your mentor, your guiding star, your unshakable foundation of Hope? “No. No!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easy. That’s a long way off. I know it sounds awful to you right now, but I promise it’s for the best. I’m much, much happier now without her in my head.” She taps that long scar, and you realize with a sickening twist of your stomach why it was so entrancing. Some part of you knew what it meant. That she’s one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> traitors. “Oh boy, I’m really fucking up this pep talk, huh? Maybe I should get Catra back in here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep that alien away from me,” you blurt without thinking. You’re afraid of her. You’re afraid of her claws, of her teeth. You’ve heard some </span>
  <em>
    <span>stories</span>
  </em>
  <span> about creatures like her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” she says, with a sudden glower, and even though you can tell this woman is old - sixties, seventies, maybe? - you suddenly realize you ought to be just as afraid of her as you are of the alien. The anger in her face subsides quickly, though. “But you don’t know any better, do you? I swear, the fucking Eternians think they’re so different from Prime and his hivemind, but they’re exactly the fucking same. Brainchipping kids your age. It should be fucking illegal. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> be, if someone would put me in charge.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?” You ask now, prompted by the outburst. These people don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>seem</span>
  </em>
  <span> Horde. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman smiles at you, and you feel, for some reason, like these kinds of smiles are rare for her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re Friends of Mara,” she says, holding your gaze steadily with her steely grey eyes, taking your hand with her gnarled, battered old fingers. “And we’re here to help. Welcome to the Rebellion, kid.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>